Best Souvenir
by Lettered
Summary: Whistler never existed. Buffy meets Angel for the first time after the End of Days is over. Futurefic, alternate reality.
1. Default Chapter

**Premise:** Whistler never existed, so Angel never stopped bumming around Manhattan to go to Sunnydale to meet Buffy. Buffy's experiences are canon, minus Angel and things that relate to Angel (including Buffy's relationships with Spike, Drusilla, and Darla. The nature of Buffy's altered background with these characters will be explained within the fic). Half a year to a year after S7, Buffy is living in Rome (per canon), but has to visit Manhattan on Slayer business.

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New York City, 2004

* * *

It was after one in the morning in Manhattan when Buffy felt a familiar curdling in her stomach. She looked longingly at the Nathan's Hot Dog Stand on the corner. They were supposed to be famous for their hot dogs. Buffy sighed. If she was going to have to forgo pleasure for business, there should at least be business to take care of. New York City may be the big bad on America's Most Wanted, and it might not be too hot on any list for Greenpeace, but as far as a Slayer could be concerned it was right up there with Heaven, Eden, and Detroit: squeaky clean of demonic activity. 

Buffy kicked a can in the road, more forcefully than she meant to, and it toppled along the street until it clanked down the sewer. So much for a stealthy approach—if she had at all needed one. Would it really be such a big deal if she got a hot dog, just a teeny one—with relish and onions and loads of ketchup and maybe a little mustard and another one for the road and maybe a nice spot in Central Park—with a bench—to sit down and eat it? But no, she was stuck patrolling.

Her stomach tightened again. Uh-oh. This was not a hunger tightening. Buffy repressed the urge to breathe "_finally_" between her lips. She shouldn't be pleased to find another vampire in Manhattan, but after three weeks with only four vamps she was in serious need of slayage.

She jogged down 45th, in the general direction the spidey-sense pulled. She turned down an alley and the street lights started clicking and buzzing. It was darker here, and smellier. And rattier. And bummier.

"Hey," she said to the bum rifling through the trash. He skittered away, and she stepped closer. He was a big bum, his filthy, tattered clothes hiding most of his skin, including a hood covering shaggy, matted hair. He smelled downright rancid. The feeling in Buffy's stomach had shot up to her head and was pounding her with the "I feel vampire! Lemme kill!" thing. She was about to ask the smelly bum if he'd seen anything weird around, when she lunged forward and landed a foot in his stomach.

The bum staggered back, yelping. For a moment, Buffy hesitated, watching as he flailed for balance. Maybe she shouldn't have done that. He was obviously . . . well, not well off, and probably wouldn't last another kick like that. Then again, he was probably newly made and still confused about what he was, what he needed, and who he could kill.

He was a vampire, even if he was a vampire who looked like a poor defenseless bum.

He was clutching his stomach, moaning a little, staggering and looking from side to side as if trying to figure out how to get away. Buffy rushed him, pushing him onto the ground so she could use her legs to brace his thighs and her hands to lock his forearms. He didn't resist. Buffy was a little surprised. Despite his haggard, weak appearance, even a human would probably resist full-body pinning, if he was any kind of sane . . .

Wide-eyed, and a little worried that she might be dealing with a male version of Drusilla, Buffy looked down, and met his eyes.

They were liquid brown and dark and filled with . . . well, she didn't know what emotion they were filled with, but it wasn't insanity. He was cold, hard, and, from what she could feel of him, weak, almost as if he was starving. His face was shadowed, hard to see, but what she could make out was big—big square jaw, big heavy brow, big straight nose—big and incredibly, indescribably, unbelievably filthy. The smell was over-powering. She tried not to breath in when she said, "Do you know who Angelus is?"

The one emotion she could read in his face was curiosity. His gaze kept flitting over her face, taking in her little chin, up-turned nose, and green eyes. "Yeah," Buffy said. "You got it right. I'm the Slayer; I'm prettier than you; and I smell better. Hands down, you lose. So 'fess up."

He didn't move. He didn't breathe. In fact, he really didn't, as if he'd been living apart from humanity so long he'd forgotten how to fake it, or as if his breath had gotten caught somewhere. "Don't even think about it," she snapped, as she saw him eyeing her neck. "Dinner doesn't fix up her hair. Now, tell me."

Quickly, so quickly that she didn't sense it until too late—which was shocking enough in and of itself—he reached a hand up. Then he was touching her hair. A vampire was touching her hair. A dirty, smells-worse-than-your-run-of-the-mill-stench-of-death-and-dying vampire was touching her hair. Buffy wondered who could say ew.

She ripped his hand away, slammed it back onto the pavement until she heard a crunch, and then she pulled a fist right up to that big square jaw and hit him. Hard.

For a moment, the vamp bum looked surprised. Then he thoughtfully licked up the blood dripping out the side of his mouth from what must have been a bite on his own tongue, and, with something like a sigh, turned his head away from her. For some reason, that infuriated Buffy, that he could turn away, as if he wasn't afraid of her, as if she didn't matter. She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her, wrinkling her nose in disgust at touching the bare, dirty skin, and at the same time glancing away from meeting his eyes because they were beginning to disconcert here. "Do you know Angelus?" she repeated.

He made a strange sound, then, like a laugh. She scowled down at him. He looked just as surprised as she was.

She had come to Manhattan looking for the Scourge of Europe, and found very little Scourage going on. In fact, she'd found very little of anything going on, and no one who knew of anything that was supposed to be going on in lieu of something actually going on. The first vamp she'd found, after nearly a whole week of fruitless patrolling, hadn't heard of Angelus. The next two had heard of him but only because she beat it out of them, and it turned out they had been lying. The last one had led her to someone who had heard of Angelus, but the same vamp had also heard Angelus had been destroyed at the turn of the century. Which, according to the Immortal's henchmen in Rome, just wasn't true.

Buffy was getting frustrated, to say the least. The Immortal was going to get this Angelus out of Manhattan and get him to open this alfalfa demon's mouth, and then swallow Earth into Hell or something like that. So the end of the world was coming; she hadn't gotten to go the top of the Empire State Building or eat Nathan's famous hot dogs; and this Angelus guy was hiding out in Manhattan, either laughing at her or terribly shy. Not to mention that this rotting bum she was having to sit on was laughing at her, too. She just didn't see anything funny.

She hit the vampire bum again, this time on the ear. "You know Angelus," she hissed. "Where is he?" When he did not answer, Buffy punched his jaw again. Sometimes she liked to beat on vamps before staking them because it helped her blow off steam, but Giles had always said it was bad form. Buffy was sure that he would agree that in this case, a little improvisation was required. "Don't wanna tell me where he is?" she said, after he'd choked back a bit of blood from her last blow. "Then we do this the hard way."

She kneed him—hard—in the groin. He roared, and threw her off of him with a strength she never would have guessed he had. For a moment, she was discombobulated. This wasn't some newly-made vamp, liked she'd guessed at first. He wasn't as weak as he looked, nor—considering how easily he'd disentangled himself from her limbs—was he inexperienced. What did it mean? What was up with this guy? And why did he have to smell so bad?

The bum was looking around, as if he wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten to be vertical again, and his eyes landed on her. She lay where she had landed on the ground, breathing quickly and shallowly, as if seriously injured. Her eyes darted toward him, as if in fear. The ridges and amber eyes of his vamp face were already gone. He looked . . . She swallowed hard. She should not be feeling pity for this vampire, much less interest. But he just looked so . . . lost.

He began to shuffle over to her. When he was squatting beside her, close but not touching, working something out of his throat that sounded like "are you—?", she lashed out a leg, knocked him over, and pinned him down again. Her head hurt with a sharp, throbbing pain—he had thrown her hard!—but otherwise she was more than capable of holding him down, no matter how strong he was.

"Am I going to slay your demonic ass?" she asked, filling in his question. "Soon." She whipped out a stake and settled the point over his heart. The other Manhattan vampires—after the first, when she hadn't known she'd have to work so hard to flush out vamps in New York City—had all confessed something or other at stake-point. It had been a mistake, however, to actually picket the vamps. After she'd checked out their leads and found out that they'd lied to her, she'd had to start all over again finding another vampire to give her new and better information. She wouldn't make that mistake again. Still, he didn't need to know that. "Tell me where to find Angelus, or you bite the dust. Literally."

Those unfathomable eyes regarded her again, and unconsciously, she squirmed on his chest. She wondered for a moment if he had a slight ability for thrall. His eyes pulled her in, made her want to both hide and open herself completely. What was a homeless, smelly vampire bum doing with eyes like that? Again, something clicked in her mind, telling her that her first impression of him was seriously far off the mark. She tried to shut it off. All this clicking in her head was making her feel nauseous. She must have cut her brow when he threw her.

Another sound was working through the bum's throat. "Gone," he managed, finally. He sounded as if he hadn't talked in ages.

Buffy's first impulse was to stake him. Okay, which, as much as she wanted to, she couldn't do, so moving on to second impulse, which was to grab his hair with her free hand, lift his head, and smash it back onto the pavement. Bad idea also, because that meant touching the hair, and seriously, smoochies with the Master?—way, way more appealing than touching this guy's hair.

So instead, all Buffy did was say softly, in her most dangerous tone and over the pounding in her head, "I'm sorry, you've used up all your life-lines. Now give me your final answer, or it's you who'll be gone."

Again, he moved too quickly for her to react. He was doing something with his shirt—with the other hand, the hand whose wrist she had not broken yet. She could fix that. She grabbed his hand with her free one . . . and saw that he was baring his chest to her. A hard, marble-white chest, caked in layer after layer of grime, but . . . what kind of vampire . . . ?

Somehow, he changed her grip on his hand so that it was he who held hers, and then he placed that hand over her other one, so that both of hers gripped the stake. Then he wrapped his own hand—egads! It was huge! What had hands that big?—around both of hers, and gave a little shove on the stake so that the point was pricking his chest. Right over his heart. "Please," he said, simply.

It was a ploy, Buffy decided. He was trying to make her think he wanted dusting in order to throw her off her guard, and then he was going to . . . to what? Okay, so the ploy was working, because she totally didn't know what to do, here. She didn't want to stake him, because she still needed info, but here he was, begging, and his eyes . . .

Ploy, Buffy reminded herself. The cut on her head, though no doubt healing fast, was fuzzying her focus, making her forget. That and the fact that he seemed to have an uncanny ability to throw her off her game, make her forget what she was dealing with. He didn't want her to dust him. This was a trick to confuse her, make her wonder what he was up to . . . .

What the hell was he up to . . . ?

His other hand, the broken one, lifted limply, sickeningly, but so slowly that she was mesmerized and didn't stop to think he could still hurt her with it, if he really wanted to. It stopped near her hair. It didn't touch, but it moved . . . There was an ache in his eyes, and she could feel it, physically feel it—his desire to run that hand through her hair. She made a little sound. She was terrified that she might actually want him to do it.

He was choking something out between his lips again. "You're very . . ."

She caught her breath, wondering if she was about to get her first-ever sincere compliment from a vampire. It was tense. It should not have been, because he was a vampire, but he was a vampire wanting to die and wanting in his last moment to touch her hair and tell her . . . Tell her what? She was very what? She was still holding a freakin' stake to his chest.

The vampire was looking at her wistfully. He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful. He wanted to tell her that she was the warmth and essence that was life itself. He wanted to tell her that she was worth living for. He could see pain, fear, experience, torture, age, and death in her eyes. She had been a Slayer for too long without enough to mitigate the pain. Death and duty had taken their toll on her. He had seen it in other Slayers who hadn't even survived as long as she had. But there was something wonderful about her, too, something Heavenly that shimmered and shifted before his eyes. There was still the spark of life in her, burning brighter than it should in someone so burdened. It was pure and innocent and everything he was not. A half a decade ago, he might have told her that. A half a decade ago, hehad still hung on to hope, foolish as it had been. But his soul, with its immense capacity for punishing himself, had gotten tired of forcing him to go on with this existence.

Once, she might have been his salvation, and he, in his own way, might have shown her that the light inside of her that led him to that salvation was her salvation, too. But the time had passed. She was his salvation, now, but only in ashes.

"Ha!" she shouted suddenly, and eased off of him. "You have a chip!" she announced. Being able to explain the guy suddenly loosened a tension she hadn't even known was there. Now he couldn't throw her off, confuse her, trick her into feeling something, because she now knew what he was. She began twirling her stake in her hand. "I should've known."

The bum looked at her blankly, and sat up. Absently, he scrubbed at his jaw, only succeeding in rearranging the grime on his face. He would look . . . look good, clean, she thought—and then wanted to throw up for thinking it. Just because he had a chip in his head and couldn't hurt her, had she really sunk so low as to find a vampire attractive? Especially considering that there were other vampires who took a lot better care of themselves than this one?

"You don't know what's happened, do you?" she asked finally. "You were in California recently, weren't you? Like maybe three or four years ago. White rooms, like a prison? Cell-mates, maybe. Did you know Darla? How 'bout Maggie Walsh, the bitch with the beady eyes?"

The bum blinked several times. He was holding his broken wrist with his good hand. He wanted the bones to set straight. "Darla?" he whispered.

"Look," Buffy said, breaking her fighting stance and putting her hands on her hips. "I know you're not a danger to society any more, so I'm not going to bother to slay you. You have two choices. You can put-put around, starving and reeking your ass off. Or you can help me out for a while, like Darla did." At his look of surprise, Buffy's brows rose. "Oh yes. If you really did know her then you'd know what that took her to help me. But a vamp'll do anything for fresh blood and something to kill, and I can give you both. So, we have a deal?"

He was looking at her with something unfathomable in his eyes. Then he stepped toward her, and Buffy had to restrain the urge to fall back. He couldn't hurt her. Darla had escaped after Buffy defeated the Master, but had returned to Sunnydale much later, seeking the Gem of Amara. The Initiative had captured Darla and planted a chip in her brain, effectively making her impotent to suck the blood of humans. She had escaped the Initiative, but been so desperate for blood and so desperate to kill that she had temporarily joined the Scoobies, just to have pigs' blood and something to do. She'd been dusted when the chip had begun to degrade, but the alliance had actually been rather interesting while it lasted.

There was no other explanation for this vampire's unwillingness to hurt her other than that he couldn't, which meant the Initiative's project had had longer lasting effects than she ever could have imagined. Apparently, all the chips weren't as low quality as Darla's had been, because this one had already lasted six months longer than hers.

"You want me to . . . help you?" he asked finally.

Buffy rolled her eyes. It was the nature of a vampire to gloat if ever a Slayer resorted to asking for their help. Darla had done it often. "Yes, I want you to help me," she said.

Some time later, some time in the far future, Angel would tell Buffy that it was at that moment he saw light again, the light of hope—the light of the sun. He had not seen it since before his turning.

"But don't forget, I'll more than make it worth your while," Buffy went on. "Blood, remember?"

"I remember," he replied, and looked away. His voice was much stronger, and he had now said two full complete sentences. Amazing what the promise of killing things could do for someone.

"But first, you're going to help me find Angelus." She wrinkled her nose. "Scratch that. As much as I'm not looking forward to your company, this may take more than one night, and I am not spending my first visit to New York with someone who smells like you, even if I won't get to go up the Empire State Building or eat Nathan hot dogs."

His jaw hung open a little. "What?"

"A shower. New clothes. A truck load of deodorant. And maybe you can shave your head?" she added hopefully. "Come on. And don't even think of trying to run. I have manacles in my duffel bag. And I'm going to use them. Once we get to my duffel bag, that is. Now do what I say or no blood for you. Get a move on."

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**A/N: **In the commentary to "Becoming", Whedon says the stand from which Whistler buys his hotdog is something purely Manhattan. I don't have the DVD so I couldn't check up on it, but I know Nathan's is famous so I used them. If anyone knows what's used on "Becoming" please tell me and I'll change it. I'm not really that familiar with NYC so please forgive all errors, here and to come.

The title for this fic is from a Bjork song called "I Miss You." To me, the song is about missing the fantasy-person you always dreamed you were going to fall in love with, but haven't gotten to meet yet. I thought it was an interesting compliment to this alternate reality, since Buffy has gone through all the trauma of season 1-7 without ever having met Angel.

This is my first BtVS fic ever. Don't be nice; rip it to shreds. I know the first chapters are all set-up and pretty slow.


	2. chapter 2

Buffy opened her door and looked up at the vampire hanging behind her in the the dim light of the hallway. And looked up more. Jeepers, he was tall. And big. He seemed to fill the narrow corridor. "Here we are," she said, feigning ease with his looming closeness. "Home sweet hostel."

The vampire shuffled across the threshold, the manacles she had put on his wrists clinking as he moved. She came in behind him, locking the door. Buffy looked at the bum for a moment, and then gingerly moved toward him. "Here," she said, reaching out her hand. When he flinched, she jumped back, and then frowned. "Here," she repeated, more forcefully, and grabbed the chain connecting the manacles. "I'm going to unlock you. You're free to move about in here. Just don't touch anything or I'll stake you. I don't want smelly vamp germs on anything."

When he was released, the vampire didn't move, or even look around. He simply stood there with his head down. His stillness was disconcerting. She cleared her throat, looking him up and down. "Okay. First thing, shower. You'll need to get out of those clothes."

His head jerked up at that, swiftly, and his eyes raked over her in such a way that for a moment she was thrown off balance. She forgot who he was and who she was, and then this hot, uncomfortable feeling started building up beneath her skin. She wondered who the hell he thought he was, looking at her like that. So she met his eyes again, defiantly, and saw nothing but a mask, schooling his features into tonelessness. Then he turned his head again with that simple gesture, looking away as if she wasn't there, didn't matter—or maybe as if he didn't matter either. She frowned. His stillness, his silence, his eyes—he was beginning to drive her crazy.

"Don't get any ideas," she finally snapped, for lack of anything better to say. She began to bustle about the room. "Go in the bathroom. Here are some towels. Put your clothes in this bag and then set it outside the door. I'll . . . do something with them. And I'm going to be right out here, so no use trying to escape or anything. There's soap and stuff in there. Why are you just standing there?"

Without another word or glance, the vampire took the towels between two fingers, and the trash bag, and walked through the bathroom door. He closed it and stared wonderingly at the tiny bathroom. For a while after the gypsies cursed him, he had run completely wild. He'd been dirty and unkempt, starving, and utterly miserable, but there'd been something innocent in it, in his simple misery and inability to cope. Eventually, he'd pulled himself out of it, moving in and out of the fringes of society, even making himself useful from time to time—once, even, he'd done a favor for the American government.

But getting pushed out and turned away when his true nature had been discovered during the pitiful, meager attempts he had made to build some kind of life took their toll. He'd often had to resort to living on the streets, only to crawl his way back out. Almost a decade ago, now, he'd given it all up. He'd stopped caring if the sun came up on him when he slept under newspapers in the park, and only blind luck and a vicious instinct for survival he'd long wished gone had kept him going. The necessities of existence—shelter, darkness, blood . . . cleanliness—nothing mattered any more.

But now, things were different. There was a blond, golden skinned little Slayer on the other side of the door who wanted him clean. Wanted him clean so he could help her. Chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek, he began stripping off the rags. He pulled the shower curtain aside and realized he didn't remember how to use the silver dials attached to the middle of the tiled wall. Gingerly, he turned one. The water was instant and cold, and he stumbled back out of the shower, startled. But the water kept beating down, and this time, when he reached out to touch it, it was much warmer. His eyes widened as the droplets sprinkled down on his hand and the top layer of dirt washed away.

Slowly, he began to smile, and remember.

A couple minutes Buffy heard the bathroom door open a crack. The trash bag, now filled with his rancid clothes, dropped down outside the door, and the door creaked back closed. She could hear the shower running full blast.

Buffy picked up the bag, holding it as far away from her as she could. The clothes needed to be burned, but she didn't have a fireplace, and then what would he wear? Scowling, Buffy opened the bag, looked inside, and immediately came up coughing. There was no way she was washing these. There was no way she was dealing with them, period. She would just have to go out and get him new clothes.

Ugh, shopping for a vampire. But letting him go himself or taking him to a store in manacles—or letting him go naked—was out of the question. She supposed he could have clothes stashed away somewhere, but she didn't think it was likely. Even if he did, they might be just as ragged as these, or, worse, stored right in the center of a seething nest of demons.

Aligning one's self with vampires, even if they had chips in their brains, was dangerous, not to mention downright disgusting. She needed to get this guy to help her find out what she needed to know, and fast. Then she could stake Angelus and fly back to Rome, where everyone was anorexic but at least well-dressed. And she would never have to deal with the way he looked at her again. She gave another sigh. Hopefully it would only be another couple days.

Buffy set the trash bag with his clothes next to the door. She would put it in a dumpster when she went out to buy his clothes, but she wasn't about to leave now with him loose in her room. Though he'd willingly followed her from the alley near 45th to Central Park, and allowed her to put on the manacles docilely enough, he hadn't exactly agreed to anything. Even if he had, vampires—even vampires with chips—couldn't be trusted. Darla had proved that often enough. Besides, his silent acceptance of everything she said and did made her suspicious. It was always the silent types who were the most dangerous. And those eyes . . .

Impatiently, she paced the room. It was tiny, complete without towels or a phone.Getting there hadn't been fun, either; riding with a vampire in manacles on the subway wasn't exactly low profile. But she wasn't about to walk the forty blocks from Central Park to the Bowery, and considering what other things got on the subway in New York at one-thirty in the morning, no one had any right to question them. Maybe some witnesses had even gotten ideas for a new brand of kinky.

Still, it was too bad the Watcher's Council didn't see fit to chip in a pittance when the end of the world was coming so she might've stayed in a real hotel without dipping into the small savings she'd hoarded over the past year. Giles had paid for her flight and written her a check, but both of them had assumed her business in New York City wouldn't last over a few days.When those few days had stretched on to weeks, Buffy had been reluctant to ask Giles to wire her more. He shouldn't be funding her existence, evenif she was existing solely in Slayer capacity.

She couldtake care of herself. She'd been the one toinsist on the hostel. At least she'd been a able to get a single with its own shower—a real treasure in the hostel world—even though the lady at the reception desk didn't speak English and hissed at anyonewho usedthe washing machines at night. With the be-chipped vampire to consider, however, Buffy had the premonition that everything was about to get a lot more complicated.

Which meant the sooner she got Angelus, the better. Buffy wondered whether the bum in the bathroom really knew Angelus, after all. Would she have to keep beating him up? Torture it out of him? Could she stand to do it, if he looked at her in that way, if she remembered how he'd touched her hands, holding her stake against his chest? If she remembered the way his hand had risen to touch her hair?

Buffy's pacing finally led her to stand before the bathroom door. She tapped her lip as she went back to wondering who the bum was, or what. How had he escaped the Initiative? When? And how in hell did he know Darla? And how was it that he confused her so much; how did his eyes make her so uncomfortable; how was he throwing her off yet again when he wasn't even in the room? And how long did it take for a bum who obviously didn't know what clean was to take one stupid shower?

He had been in there over an hour when Buffy finally decided to knock. She'd rapped her knuckles once against the door and was about to do it again when the door swung inward.

Little towel, was her first thought. Little, little towel, what would it be like to be you? How 'bout you, little drops of water? What would it be like to—

"Do you have any more shampoo?" he asked. "The bottle in there only had a little left."

"Mm hm," she murmured. Her eyes didn't leave him. He was clean, dripping with water, and naked except for the towel wrapped around his narrow hips. He was built like Riley: tall, broad-shoulders, but there the similarities ended. This was a man, with hard flesh, hard muscles, and a hard face, with none of Riley's friendly sweetness in his demeanor. His features, now that she could see them clearly, were big, but perfectly proportioned. And they were indeed square, in places, but that contrast made hismouth seem wide and voluptuous, his eyes seem sensual. His white skin was stark against the rich darkness of his hair and eyes.

Great. An attractive vampire. Not only an attractive vampire, but a hot, studly, just-her-type vampire. Would the Powers That Be never stop torturing her? She'd had to deal with a lot, but never this. She was intensely annoyed.

"Here," she snapped, going over to her luggage and pulling out the other bottle she'd brought. She handed it to him. "Use this."

He looked down at it. "It smells flowery."

"Flowers are better than rat dung. You're in no position to be picky."

He took the bottle slowly and read the label. She shut the door in his face.

"Sorry," he said, staring at the door. He shrugged and dropped the towel off, stepping back into the shower. The water was cold and stayed cold when he turned it on this time, but he didn't care. Even if he was going to have to use something called Herbal Essence to do it, he couldn't seem to wash his hair enough. There had already been a bottle of her conditioner in the shower, which he had used repeatedly. He had already used up the entire bar of soap. Now he used the shampoo to lather his body and scrub himself down once again.

The water didn't need to be hot. He kept thinking of the look on her face as her eyes had raked swiftly over his almost-naked form. It had been a long, long time since a woman had looked at him that way. It had been never since such a look made him feel this way.

By the time he came out again, Buffy was furious. She hated that he'd been stinky and unpleasant and was now using her bathroom—hers—like he was suddenly a film star and owned it. She hated how her breath hitched whenever she thought about the water dripping down his chest, how his eyes had managed to make her heart go out to him, even back and the alley. She hated how everything had to be complicated, how she couldn't just beat up vampires until she found Angelus and then go home. She hated how confused she felt, and all over meeting some bum in an alley. She was about ready to stake him and find Angelus without him, when the bathroom door opened and he walked through, using another towel to dry off his hair.

She swallowed hard and pointed. "There's a sheet on that chair. You can wrap yourself up in it while I go buy you clothes." She paused. "Those towels are too small. And . . ."

He deliberately turned his back to her, still chewing thoughtfully from time to time on the inside of his cheek. Her voice trailed away. She pursed her lips, staring at his back.

"And?" he asked, turning back to her with the sheet in his hand.

"And I'm going to shackle you up while I'm gone."

He had begun to unfold the sheet, but now he paused, holding the cloud of it in his hand. "That's not necessary," he said, after a moment. "I won't leave."

"Do I look like an idiot?"

He stared at her, so expressionless that it couldn't be anything but an insult.

She sucked in her breath. "Fine, don't answer. Put your sheet on." She turned away to grab the manacles. He let the towel drop and wrapped the sheet around himself, covering up all the necessary parts, and most of the unnecessary ones. He wondered whether it was innocence and inexperience or just him that made her so uncomfortable seeing him partially naked. He hoped it was him.

He pulled the sheet up to cover the tattoo, too, wondering also if her lack of reaction to it had been a reaction after all, or whether he would actually have to spell out to her who he was. He wondered how he would do that, how she would react. In all probability, he should rightfully suspect that she would stake him.

She had mentioned a chip in Darla, that for some reason made her think she was safe from him. But from the little she had said about Darla, this Slayer had never come to trust the female vampire, and that was as it should be. She had no reason to trust him, either, no reason not to chain him up when she left the room. She had every right to fear him.

He wanted to tell her he could be trusted. He wanted to prove it to her—but how? He was a vampire, and she was a Slayer. She had probably been sent to find and dust him. It was ironic, he supposed, that all the sudden he desperately didn't want her to.

After the rustling behind her stopped, Buffy turned around with the manacles in hand. It wasn't much better, looking at him with the sheet draped like a cloak around his shoulders, because she could still see hints of his chest, and all of his face quite clearly, and his hair looked thick, but not overly silky, and his eyes were still doing things do her. She sighed. "Come here, by the radiator."

He came, but not by the radiator. He stood by her, about six inches away, towering over her, his face trained to hers, even when she tried to look away. He smelled very strongly of her Herbal Essence. The manacles clinked in her listless hands.

"You don't need to fear me," he said finally.

"What makes you think I'm afraid?" she demanded, jerking her face back up to his.

His face turned with hers, moving, if anything, closer. "Your pulse," he said quietly. "It's rapid." His jaw clenched. "It's galloping."

Try having a vampire in a sheet that looks like you half a foot away! she wanted to scream. Instead, she snapped, "It could be galloping for other reasons."

His smile was sudden and sly—unexpected. It turned up a corner of his mouth as he looked down at her and made him seem centuries older—which he was—made him seem knowing, as if he was acutely aware what was making her pulse funk. It made him seem, for the first time, like a vampire.

She snapped the manacle on his wrist, shoved him over to the radiator, and snapped the other cuff onto the pipe leading into the wall. "Oof," he said. She wanted to laugh. After all his silence, cryptic behavior, and disconcerting stares—not to mention that devilish smile—"oof" seemed out of place.

"Be back in a few," she told him, and locked the door behind her.

_

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_

_**A/N:** Special credit to a2zmom for helping me figure out where Buffy is staying. If you're reading this you'll notice that the hostel's name didn't even come up, but your insight on the matter really helped a lot (and I used the location, obviously ;o). Thanks times about a billion._

_Also thanks to everyone who reviewed. **Malakhim, crystalix**: glad you like the concept; I was so sure it had been done before!** Malakhim **and** a2zmom**: so glad you don't think it's slow! The plot doesn't get going for a good long while yet, so lemme know if it does get boring ;o)_

_Specifically to **a2zmom **and** Tariq**: The "other reality" of this fic is explained a little more in the next few chapters, but doesn't play a big part until later on. **Tariq**, I'm not going to mention Cordy or Gunn at all. My assumption is that without Angel, they'd just go their own ways—Cordy's probably a secretary pursuing a dead-end acting career, and Gunn's probably hunting vampires with his gang. Anyway, since LA doesn't figure into this fic, they won't appear. The other characters you mentioned will be addressed eventually, though._

_Joss Whedon owns everything except Herbal Essence, which, come to think of it, owes me money for the product spot. (At least, I hope Whedon doesn't own Herbal Essence. Freaky.)_


	3. chapter 3

There was a 24-hour Wal-Mart in Queens. Buffy was glad she was such a conscientious traveler. Giles had helped her do some research for the trip, but he had been in London at the time, and it was harder over the phone to stress that what she really needed to know was where she could buy an iron in the middle of the night, where the nearest Chinese take-out place was, and how to get to Bloomingdale's. Instead he'd burrowed his nose in books about Angelus, trying to figure out what he had to do with the Al Franken thingy. Good old Giles.

She didn't see much of Giles any more, now that Sunnydale was a smoking crater. They still corresponded, comparing notes on this and that apocalypse, but she'd often gotten the impression that he was rather . . . alone. At least he wasn't alone in being alone. Buffy had had a boyfriend or two since she'd died, but she'd never had anyone serious in her life except Riley. Buffy sighed and juggled her Wal-Mart bags while she rooted through her pocket to find her key. That vampire better have his sheet on or else she was going to be seriously pissed.

When she got the door open, her eyes went straight for the radiator—and saw the pipe ripped out of the wall. She dropped her bags, rushed in—and saw him stomach-up on the bed, sheet pooled around his hips, feet hanging off the end because he was too long for it. His hands were crossed behind his head and his eyes were closed. Buffy took two angry steps, resisted the urge to tear the sheet off in fury, and barked, "What the hell are you doing?"

He cracked open an eye. "It's called sleeping."

"You destroyed the radiator!"

He yawned and scrubbed a hand over his face. She raised her hand to hit him across the jaw, because he was a vampire, because he'd escaped, because no one should look that good while making sleepy faces. His hand caught her wrist easily. "I'm sorry," he said simply, and there was something so earnest in his eyes that she believed him. His thumb moved into the palm of her hand, for just the barest of moments. She trembled. He dropped her wrist as if it had burned him. Perhaps it had. His skin was cool and lifeless and hers was thrumming with blood. "I didn't know how else to make it clear to you that I'm not going to leave you."

Now it was boiling with blood, the words "I'm not going to leave you" ringing in her ears. Those were the words of a lover. "I'm not falling for that," she said tightly. "If you think I'll leave you alone for one minute without—"

His hand moved back to join the other one behind his head—the one that still had a manacle cuffed around its wrist. She tried not to notice the way him lying there like that made it so that both the phrases "half-naked" and "beneath her" applied. He looked at her blankly. "Did Darla let you chain her up?"

Buffy's mouth opened, and then she clicked it shut. "Darla was different," she said after a moment.

The wicked smirk returned. "Yes. She is. She likes . . . different things. Chains too, I guess." His gaze wandered over her, and Buffy felt as though she was being undressed. "But Darla would never let a Slayer do _that_."

If Buffy hadn't worked with Darla for nearly three years she might have been surprised, might have allowed the comment to get to her, might have blushed. But being in close proximity with a vampire—even one with a chip—had seriously dulled her to embarrassment and shock. That, and all the apocalypses and prophesies and demons she'd had to deal with over the years. She raised a brow. "You might not know Darla as well as you think. But anyway, we'll never know. She's dust."

His face shut down, just went completely blank.

"Are you sorry?" she asked curiously.

He didn't turn away, as she half expected. "No," he said simply, his dark eyes for a moment coal-black.

She felt herself falling into that gaze. Unsettled, she reached for his hand and used her key to unlock the cuff that was still around his wrist. Walking over to where she had dropped the bags, she picked them up. "Here," she said, tossing them at him. "Go in the bathroom and put those on." Then she turned around and busied herself examining the radiator. She didn't want to have to see how he managed to get off the bed with the sheet still covering all the necessary parts, or whether he would bother.

"Thank you," he said to her back. He went to the bathroom and shut the door, thoughtfully removing items from the bags. She had bought him clothes. It felt funny. This whole situation felt funny. She had made the decision to once again attempt to rejoin humanity very easy for him, but he hadn't exactly considered all the practicalities of it. He'd gotten a sudden vision of being human, of sleeping in a real bed and wearing real clothes, of helping her and protecting her and warning her when she was in danger. Half of him was expecting that vision to just suddenly become a reality; the other half was completely lost as to how to make it happen.

He'd been living worse than an animal. He owned nothing tangible, had no where to go; there was hardly anyone he knew. Worst of all, he didn't know how to act, especially around her. He ached with need for her, in more ways than one. She was too much; everything about her made him remember hope and love and sex all at the same time, and it was making his self-control fray about the edges. He had to pull himself together. He had to learn to walk like a man again.

He pulled the clothes out of the bags and looked at them, unfolding one of the shirts. He didn't remember these things; they weren't his. Everything was so unfamiliar. He didn't know anything about this decade—or the last—or what was going on in the world—both of the living and of the dead. If only he could have dealt with everything one step at a time. But this—the Slayer, her search for Angelus, Darla, the shower, the shampoo, the clothes—hell, having to form coherent sentences—it was too much. He wanted to put his head in her lap and ask her to touch him until he could remember what it was like to be human. Right now it was a memory tucked away for too many centuries to count.

Shaking his head and gritting his teeth, he picked up the clothes and opened the door again.

Buffy whipped around, relieved that at least now he would be clothed—only to be disappointed. There was still the sheet, no longer cloak-like, but loosely pulled around his waist with one hand, his front bared to her gaze all the way down to his hip bones. His other hand held the sweat-pants and T-shirt she had gotten him. "I can't wear these," he said simply, and thrust them out toward her.

"What? Why not?" Was he going to tell her the underwear was too small? Crotch-sizes only went up so high . . . She had tried not to think about underwear too much. The idea of boxers or briefs on that body could have taken all night. She'd just grabbed a bunch of different things and hoped something would suit.

He was plucking the tag on the T-shirt. "'Fruit of the Loom'?" he read. "I've never heard of it."

"So?"

He thought for a moment. "I wear Battaglia's. Venanzi, maybe."

"Are those designers? You're straight off the street smelling like rat dung and you're talking about designers?"

His eyes turned upwards, thoughtful. "You're right. They're from the sixties. It's been a while. Who's in now? I like silk."

"The hell you do! I . . ." That smart-ass half smile was back, tugging at his wide mouth, and realization dawned. "Are you just trying to give me a hard time?"

The smirk fell away, and he looked thoughtful. "I don't know. It's been a while since . . ." He looked away. Good, Buffy thought. He should be ashamed of himself, and she wanted him to be just as uncomfortable as she was. Who'd've thought she'd be discussing fashion with that filthy, disgusting bum she'd plucked off the street? And who'd've thought that, several hours after offering his heart, begging her to kill him, he'd take issue with Fruit of the Loom? Jeez.

He changed what he was going to say mid-sentence and finally just said, "It's been a while since I thought about it."

"I'll say, Raggedy Andy. Fruit of the Loom is decent stuff. And cheap. Which means I could afford it. Which," she trailed off, "is usually what cheap means."

"Okay. But . . . you didn't get any shampoo . . . ?"

"What do I look like, the errand-boy? I was trying to help."

The vampire was still looking away. "Sorry."

"Now get in there and get dressed."

He pressed his lips together, looking both contrite and frustrated. She didn't give an inch, too busy with her own confusion to care much about his. Perhaps taking in a vampire, even if he had a chip, wasn't such a good idea. He was, after all, a bum.

The vampire turned on his heel, went back into the bathroom, and shut the door. Several minutes later he emerged, in the gray sweats and white T-shirt she had bought for him. "There," she told him. "Isn't that comfy?"

"No."

It was true. In what any normal person would think of as comfort clothes he looked distinctly uncomfortable. The shirt was a little tight across the chest, and Buffy berated herself for having gotten that size on purpose. She most certainly did not need to see the shape of his chest any more than she already had. He kept running his hand through his hair, frowning.

"How did you break the radiator?" she asked finally.

He looked at the radiator, then at her. He took a step forward. "Pulled," he said simply.

"You do realize I'm going to have to pay to fix it. And that I'm probably on ice as it is for letting another person stay in my room. They charge extra for that, you know."

He took another step forward. He still reeked of flowers. "I'll pay."

"How long have you been dead? Three cents and the cardboard box you live in isn't gonna pay for it."

Another step. "I have money." He paused, then amended, "I can get money. Eventually."

He was quite close again, looking down at her. She wanted to back away, but she stood her ground, thrusting her chin up toward him. "What?" she demanded peevishly. "What is it?"

"I hurt you."

"What?" she repeated, and put her hand to her head, where his eyes were fixed. Oh, great. There was still blood caked in her hair from her cut to the head when he had thrown her in the alley. No wonder the lady at Wal-Mart had looked at her like she was off her rocker. But by now, the cut itself had healed. She shrugged. "It's gone. No big."

"Yes, but . . ." He moved his hand, and for a second she thought he was going to try that hair-touching thingy again. For that second she thought she might let him. But he apparently remembered the no touching rule because his hand froze, and then dropped. He looked away, and suddenly seemed miserable. "I can smell the blood."

"Oh! Oh," she said again. "Sorry. Let me . . ." With her hand on her head, she rushed over to her luggage, and rummaged until she found the gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and, for good measure, her pajamas. Then she went to the bathroom, poured some of the antiseptic on the gauze, and began cleaning up the blood and what little vestiges of the wound were left.

The vampire followed her, standing in the door of the bathroom. The smell of her blood had been driving him crazy, but he hadn't really wanted her to clean it up. It smelled so good. He'd heard some humans thrived on the smell of coffee even if they didn't drink it. He didn't know, he'd never had much coffee when he'd been human—but apparently, vicarious nasal digestion didn't work for vampires. She needed to clean it or else he'd shortly be sinking his fangs into her throat. As pleasant as that sounded, a part of him was disgusted with himself. A part of him wanted that revulsion to manifest physically, to stave off the other things he was feeling. But as much as he welcomed nausea, he only felt thirst and the arousal of anticipation. It was very hard not to ask if he could help her clean up.

"There," she said, after a minute or two. "That better?" He nodded. "Good. Because I'm going to change and do my bed-stuff now." He remained standing there. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry," he said, but this time didn't look sorry, and stepped back from the door. When she came back out in her shorts and tank top, his eyes examined her outfit curiously. Her skin was so golden, and her bare legs looked shapely and strong. "You . . ." he began, "—you even look . . . ."

He wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked, how desirable, but he didn't remember how these things were said. He only knew that she had not dressed to impress, that she was merely going to bed, and that with her simple, loose-fitting clothes she was somehow still impossibly making him crave that it be he who bedded her.

"What?" she demanded, her hands clenched into fists. "I even look what?"

"Nothing." His mouth opened at her scowl. She looked upset at not receiving an answer. "Uh . . . Sleepy," he suggested.

"Hmph," she replied, and crossed her arms over her chest. "We'll sleep at dawn, Angelus. Now we need to talk."

* * *

**A/N:** Ah, yet another chapter in which nothing happens.

Angel's preoccupation with the clothes derives from a line to Whistler in "Becoming" ("I don't want to dress like you"). I thought it was telling that clothes were among his first concerns. I had some trouble researching fashion designers for the kind of clothes that Angel would have worn in the '60s (one thing I do know, Angel was not a hippie), but the searches popped up Battaglia's and Venanzi. I really know nothing about these people (retailers?) or fashion in general so if anyone wants to pitch in, please do!

**Jason**, I, too, prefer to think of most of the characters as surviving. For instance, if Angel hadn't been around in "Dark Ages," Buffy could very well be dead, too. As for Spike: since it didn't seem to me that Spike and Dru's arrival in SD had everything to do with Angel, they did come and Buffy did meet them in the universe of this fic. Lastly, your thesis about the fluke is interesting; maybe you should write your own fic about it ;o)

Special thanks (once again!), **a2zmom**. I missed that about hotels, I guess; I went back and fixed it. Hope that you feel better, or that, if you have consumption, you say something either very tragic or very witty on your deathbed ;o)

If anyone else sees any errors, or is a beta well-versed in Buffyverse seeking LOTS of work, please let me know. Thanks to those who've r&r'ed.

**

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**

**Disclaimer:** "You even look . . ." is half a line stolen from S1.7 : "Angel" (as is the phrase "walk like a man"). I don't own Buffy, Fruit of the Loom, or Wal-Mart. Ah, Wal-Mart. Because sometimes, you really do need to go buy an iron at 4am.


	4. Chapter 4

The vampire's mouth shut with a click. "Yes."

Disgruntled that he didn't seem very disturbed by her use of his name, she huffed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "So you really are Angelus?"

He turned his back to her, walked a step, then turned back. He raked a hand through his hair. "No," he said, finally. "I'm not the same as I was then."

"Because with the chip you're not violent? Is this a vampire thing? I've noticed how you guys get a kick out of names and titles. Like Spike?"

"No, it's—You know Will?"

"Who?"

He waved an impatient hand. "William. The Bloody." He rolled his eyes. "Spike."

"Again with the titles."

"Whatever. You know him?"

She clicked her tongue. "You keep forgetting. Slayer, here? You know, I slay?"

The mask schooled his features again. "You slew Spike?"

"Slew? Is that even a word?" He remained very still, expressionless. She was having fun with this. "Oh! I forgot! Spike was your chylde, wasn't he? At least, that's what Giles said. Well, grandchylde, anyway. Drusilla—"

"Did you slay Drusilla, too?"

"Why Angelus, you sound as though you actually care."

"I do."

"You didn't care about Darla."

"I cared about Darla," he said quietly. His face remained impassive.

"Well," Buffy said, "I didn't slay her. Her chip slayed her. And I didn't slay Drusilla. She was sickly and Spike couldn't find her a cure—though, to give him credit, he did try. A church fell on top of her. She was too weak to escape. Rafter probably lobbed off her head or something. You know the whole beam in thine eye thing.

"Anyway, I didn't slay Spike, either," she quickly added, because Angel's eyes were blank and unfocused. "He kinda lost it after Drusilla died, I think. Blamed it on me. Raised this Judge guy to kill me, 'cept the Judge killed him first. The Judge needed energy and said the Spike's grief made him righteous or something like that. Made him human-er, I guess, or as human-ist as you can get for a vampire. Actually, it was kind of . . . poignant. He died because he loved her." Buffy shrugged and pulled her legs up onto the bed. "Are you sorry?" she asked. "About Spike and Drusilla, I mean."

He sat down in the chair across from the bed heavily, his eyes closed. When they opened, they were impenetrable. "I am sorry about Drusilla. But not for the reasons you think."

"Sure," Buffy said. "You really loved her. You would've destroyed the world to keep her, but it was still true love. That's how Spike was."

"That was Spike," the vampire said darkly. His eyes bored little smoking holes into Buffy's green ones. "I've never loved anyone."

"Until?"

A spasm crossed his face. "What do you mean?"

"Oh. You had an until-face. It was just a pretty end-all statement, you know, with the melodrama and the woe. Perfect for an 'until'. I just thought—"

"There is no 'until,'" the vampire breathed out between clenched teeth. "There can never be an 'until.' There won't ever be."

"Talk about melodrama," she said, gathering up her legs and putting her chin on her knees. "Lighten up. Though I guess that might be difficult," she conceded, "for a vampire."

He was silent for a long time, and then a trace of the trademark smile wisped across his face. "Well, it's not every day I get to be at the stake-end of a Slayer, learn that both my Sire and greatest chylde are gone, and am forced to wear Fruit of the Loom."

"It's cotton. It's good. Why was she your greatest?"

He turned his head away. His neck was thick, but there was an elegance in it, in the cord of muscle and artery that marred the smooth column of it and met his jaw. His elbow was on the chair's arm, the broad palm languid in the air, the ever-so-long fingers meeting his lips in an unconscious way. No hand had a right to look that sexy when it was just sitting there. Buffy shuddered at the thought.

"Okay, so you don't want to talk about it," she said finally, after a long spell of silence. "Fine. Let's talk about Angelus. Who are you now, if not him?"

He moved his head toward her slightly, his fingers lightly tapping his lips. When she sucked in her breath, he turned to face her head on. The smirk was deep, and sinful. "They call me Angel," he said.

"Creative," she offered, trying to control her pulse.

He stirred, crossing his legs. He looked annoyed. "I didn't come up with it."

"Okay," she said slowly. "So who calls you that?"

"People."

"You mean vampires," Buffy corrected.

"No, I mean people. Humans. Living ones."

"Yeah, but what kind of people would name a vampire 'Angel'?" He remained still, silent, those long white fingers still doing indecent things near his lips. "Maybe it's easier to pronounce, without the 'us'," Buffy offered, trying to be light. "Giles and I were debating between the An-GEL-us and the AN-gel-us option."

Angel did not look at her, or appear in the least amused by her suggestion. Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Why haven't you asked me how I knew you were Angelus?" she asked.

His hand came away from his face in a negligent movement. "I suspect it was the tattoo," he said dismissively.

Buffy closed her hands into fists in frustration. He was a know-it-all and cryptic to boot. She still didn't know where she was coming from with this guy, and it was deeply confusing. "So, you knew I saw it; you gave me credit enough to have researched Angelus and recognize the mark; you ripped out my radiator to escape, and yet you stayed."

"I said I would pay for it."

"Will you stop it?" she yelled. "I don't care about the radiator!"

At that, he was suddenly inattentive no longer. His eyes met hers and held them. It was impossible to look away. "What _do_ you care about?" he asked.

The silkiness of his tone made her shudder again. Why was he doing this to her? Why did he make her feel so young again, so lost and confused, so helpless—oh! She hated him. "I care about the end of the world," she said at last. "I care about the fact that the Immortal wants you and some demon is going to end everything. Isn't that enough?"

The smile fell away and both hands were suddenly clutching the arms of the chair very, very tightly. "The Immortal?"

"Yeah. You know him?"

He looked away for a moment and when his eyes settled back onto hers they were sharp, piercing. Where before his posture had been languid, he was now tightly-strung, on edge. "Did you . . . Have you . . . Have you met him?"

"Sure. Once or twice. He's the big bad down the Vatican way. He particularly enjoys midnight strolls through the Non-Catholic cemetery, and really likes some dead poet there—what's his name? I—"

"Have you . . . . He likes midnight strolls," he repeated, latching onto her words, ". . . with you?"

"What, do I hang on his arm on romantic turnabouts through the graves?" She rolled her eyes and took on a sugary, sing-song voice. "Oooh Mr. Immortal, you're so . . . immortal. And so . . ." She trailed off at his shudder. "Hey," she said lightly. "Hey, I'm not serious. I mean, ew? He's a vampire."

If it had been possible, his expression would have grown darker. "Just an animal, right?"

"No," she said absently. "Animals I like." She scooted back on the bed, grabbed a pillow, and folded it up under her chin. "I mean, come on," she said finally, because he was angry about something and she didn't want him to be, because . . . because he had to explain to her what the thingy with the Allcatholic demon was. "Were you implying that I'd actually let that slime-ball put me in its thrall?"

"He seduces women."

"Ew! Yuck! You mean you thought I'd—"

Angel's voice was loosening. He settled back into his chair, templing his fingers before him. He seemed amused by her disgust. "He's done it before."

"Gag me. To who?"

"To whom," he corrected, absently. "Darla, for one. Drusilla, for another."

"Oh. But they were vampires," she said dismissively.

"Yes, but some vampires do have loyalties. William did."

"Sure, but Drusilla didn't. Neither did Darla."

He looked away again, and said at last, "You didn't know them, not like I did. They loved, in their own way . . . . There was a time when . . . ." He trailed off.

"Darla never loved anyone," Buffy interrupted. Angel didn't seem likely to finish the statement anyway; it would've actually told her something about himself and apparently that wasn't his thing. "Except maybe Xander," Buffy added, watching to see if he reacted to her addendum.

He merely raised a brow. "Xander?"

"One of my best friends. He and Darla had a thing. For about two minutes. It was a spell, I think. But it wasn't love."

"Darla loved me," Angel said simply.

"Huh," Buffy replied, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "You like to think. Why would she love you?"

"Because I was her greatest creation. As Drusilla was mine."

"Modest, much?"

"It's the truth," he told her, looking slightly offended.

"Funny. In all the time I spent with Darla in my hair, I don't think she ever mentioned you, not even in passing."

"No," Angel replied. "I should think not."

"Why not? If she loved you so much?"

"We parted ways," he said simply. "Not pleasantly."

A sudden light bulb turned on over Buffy's head. "Because of the Immortal? A lover's spat?"

"No. Nothing like that."

The light went out. Angelus—or Angel, or whatever—appeared to be the missing link between Darla and Spike and Drusilla. Buffy wondered why Angel had been cast out of the loop for so long. Did he resent it? Did he miss them? Had he tried to return to them, and was that why he had ended up a prisoner of the Initiative with Darla? But while he had said he had cared for his Sire, he didn't seem remotely as moved by her dusting as Spike had by Drusilla's. Despite her better judgment, Buffy was beginning to believe Angel's implications the he and Darla really had been over.

Buffy yawned. The whole vampire lore thing was really interesting, especially after all that time she had spent with Darla, but she was getting tired; the sun was coming up, and she still hadn't figured out what the deal with the Alleycat demon was.

He shifted in his chair. "Dawn is coming," he said at last.

"No shit, Sherlock," she said.

He was silent for several long moments. "May I ask a question now?"

"Sure," she said, and yawned again.

"What's your name?"

"That's it?" she asked in surprise.

"Well . . . right now, it does happen to be my most pressing query, yes."

"I'm the original. The trend-setter. You know, before slaying and potentialing became a fad. I'm even pre-Kendra," she added brightly. Recognition did not cross his features, and Buffy was surprised. She didn't know whether she liked it that her reputation didn't precede her everywhere. But Angel was tensing up, and she realized, with a sudden hop of her heart, that it wasn't just a curiosity thing for him. He _really_ wanted to know her name. Badly.

"Buffy," she said gently, into the still air. "Buffy Anne Summers."

She found herself wanting him to repeat it. She wanted to hear her name, spoken through those lips. But he was silent.

"I came here to stake you," she said conversationally, after a bit. "I would have thought your 'most pressing query' would be why I haven't done it yet. Or maybe you think I'm not going to do it, and you're wondering why?"

"Perhaps. I was more interested in your name."

"Why?" she asked breathlessly.

"Maybe because, as you said, vampires think names are important."

"Maybe?" she asked. "Was that the real reason?" When he was silent for several minutes, she sighed. The sigh turned into a yawn. "There you go with the cryptic again. I could still stake you, you know. I'm probably going to." She crawled up the bed and pulled back the covers. "But for now, I'm not, because I don't think you're in cahoots with the Immortal or are trying to destroy the world. Not yet, anyway."

Silence from the chair in the dark corner. At last: "Thank you."

"Well, it's not a favor, or anything," she said, turning away from him and burrowing into the bed, pushing the pillows under her face. "It's only because I found you starving and smelling like rat crap. If you'd been wearing Versace or that stuff you mentioned, whatever it was, I'd've definitely staked you. No questions asked."

"That's good to know."

"And don't think you're off the hook or anything just because I'm going to sleep," she mumbled, closing her eyes. "I still don't trust you. I sleep with an eye open. I'll know if you try to escape. Or try anything funny."

"Naturally."

She pulled the covers up. "Oh yeah," she said, though he hadn't moved from where he was sitting. "Sorry about the one bed thingy." She wasn't, not really, because he was a vampire, but she was kinda sorry about the images popping into her head regarding both of them sharing it that the one bed thingy was giving her. "You'll have to sleep on the floor."

"Believe me, I've had worse."

"Yeah, but there's not much room down there. Here," she said, and threw a pillow aimlessly into the room. She heard him moving, and guessed he was settling down on the floor. When the rustling stopped, she said, "Angel?"

"Hmm?"

She was probably giddy with exhaustion, but it pleased her that he did not sound in the least bit annoyed that she was still talking at him. "Do you snore?"

"I don't know. It's been a long time since anyone's been in a position to let me know."

Buffy liked that answer. She snuggled up in the covers, already beginning to drift off. She was just on the brink of deep sleep when she remembered. Vampires couldn't snore.

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**A/N:** Thanks so much for reviewing; it's nice to read people's opinions. Criticism is also welcome ;o)

Special credit to **a2zmom** for beta'ing this chapter. A couple lines were directly rewritten by her. Thanks for helping me spiff it up!

Lines stolen from S1.7 "Angel", and some twisted from AtS epi. 108 "The Girl In Question." Don't own 'em or anything. Inspirational credit goes to the infamous picture of David Boreanaz seated with his hand near his face.


	5. Chapter 5

Buffy didn't sleep well, and the coiling in her stomach woke her up. She shot up to sit ramrod straight on the bed, mouth open in a silent scream. Then she had to breathe, and realized that there wasn't a vampire in the room about to kill her. There was a vampire in her room sleeping on her floor, and she had put him there.

Stupid, Buffy thought. She had been stupid. She'd fallen asleep with Angelus, whom she'd been sent to dust, roaming free in the room. How had that happened?

She looked down. The bed and luggage filled most of the tiny room, and the longest free floor space was between her bed and the radiator. He had stretched out there, stomach down and sheet pooled once again about his hips. He had taken off the T-shirt. She hoped to God he hadn't decided to strip his pants off, too. By the light of the early evening sun filtered through the heavily curtained window, she could see his profile and the gryphon on his back.

She resisted the urge to trace the tattoo. He was so pale, and the planes of his back were so smooth and hard they looked like marble, like something in Rome. His face was that way too, except that in sleep the hard cast of it fell away, and he looked peaceful. Buffy sucked in her breath at the beauty of him. He was something she could look at all day, had she never had to meet the disconcerting darkness of his eyes. With the white lids drawn over them, the eyelashes dusting his cheeks, he looked young, like a man, like someone she could throw off her covers to lie down beside.

Gritting her teeth, Buffy threw off her covers and swung her feet off the opposite side of the bed. As she swiftly tip-toed to the bathroom, she reiterated to herself how stupid she had been. She had slept with a demon beside her without chaining him up, and now she had to use the restroom. What was to stop him from leaving? What had she been thinking last night, when she'd shut herself into the bathroom to change, giving him free rein of her hotel room? What had she been thinking, period? She hadn't even asked him about alfalfa. Now she was stuck having to trust him while she temporarily left the room.

Buffy sighed. If she showered quickly she might be able to get done before he woke up. That would have to do. Besides, a treacherous part of her didn't want him to see her until she'd had at least half a chance to get pretty. She closed the door and hurriedly undressed. The shower was surprisingly clean. Last night she hadn't bothered to get a look at it, but all that gunk and grime on Angel couldn't have been pretty going down the drain. Turning the tap to 'hot,' she looked around, hoping for clean towels. She picked up the Wal-Mart bags so that extra T-shirt she'd bought him didn't get wet, and couldn't resist peeking inside. None of the packages of underwear were open.

She slammed the bags down and stepped into the shower. The water hadn't had time to heat, and she was glad. He had stood here, naked, in this shower. She wished it was her own shower, so she could huddle on the floor of it and not worry about diseases and other weird things people might have left in it. She would have wrapped her arms around her legs and let the water lash down on her unguarded head.

It was true, what her friends had said after she came back to life almost three years ago now. She was a slut. No one but Anya had used that word—though Darla had used worse—but they had all thought it. None of them had judged her for it. They had thought she had been in Hell, and when they learned the truth, her feelings were even less fathomable to them and so even more forgivable. Not all of them had approved of her actions, but they had understood that she was angry, in pain, full of aggression that she refused to take out on any one innocent soul, so she took it out on many. One had not been enough to satiate her anyway, not with Slayer strength and not with the memory of Heaven intense in her head, graying out the world around her into something brutish and harsh.

She had slept with guys. Lots of guy, both boys and men. She'd gotten violent sometimes, and it had bordered on abusive. Most of them had liked it, and if they hadn't, she'd stopped in time and the night had come to a quick end. But even if they did like it, even if they could make her forget her pain and herself while they were inside of her, she always moved on after a night or two. She didn't want feelings to get involved. Feelings would only get hurt.

And too many nights with one guy meant the danger that she might start to care, too. She might want to tell him things, to somehow share this misery that she couldn't dump on her friends, and that was something a Slayer just couldn't do. How does the Chosen One tell the ordinary Joe that she needed to fuck because Heaven had been too beautiful and she hated having to come back, even to save the world? And if she told anyone that, if she could somehow magically make a normal person understand—if she found another Riley, who dealt with demons for a living—the combination of confession and copulation might trick her into thinking she was in love again. And wasn't love just another form of torture?

Buffy had gotten over it, of course. Life was too special to embrace death. She no longer used people and threw them away; the idea had grown so repellent to her that she hadn't had sex in almost two years. She hadn't wanted to die in almost as long. She had regained what Xander affectionately termed, "her old sparkle." In return, she had lost her innocence. She hadn't lost it when she'd lost her virginity to Parker, nor when she'd found out he was a slimeball. She hadn't lost it with Riley. Maybe she hadn't even really lost it sleeping with all those guys. Maybe it had finally slipped away from her when she'd actually decided she wanted to live a real life again.

She only knew that it was gone, and the fact that she was standing in this shower, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to save herself from her own body, proved it. She was thinking of the vampire in the other room, his sleeping profile, the gryphon on his shoulder, the planes of his bare back, the fact that he wasn't wearing anything under his sweats, the way he looked at her, the way his hands moved, the way his voice sounded. She was thinking of the ache between her legs, thinking of how sweet that ache could be, how she'd forgotten it didn't always have to be violent. She was thinking of how much she'd missed it, and how its sudden resurgence now proved that she really had lost more than she could ever hope to regain.

What would Anya have said to what she was feeling right now? Buffy knew the answer, also knew the others would be gentler. They'd kindly say that physical desire for a vampire only meant that she still needed to work out her 'anger' and 'aggression' and 'pain'. But they'd all be thinking it . . .

Slut.

It didn't matter that she didn't want to fuck the vampire outside the bathroom door the way she'd wanted to fuck all those guys. It didn't matter that this wouldn't be about aggression or pain. It didn't matter that he had a chip and couldn't hurt her, that he was beautiful and seemed really nice. It only mattered that he was a vampire, and a vampire had killed her once; vampires were her worst enemies; vampires had tried to end the world on occasions too numerous to count. And she was being careless, letting this one slip through her fingers. She was being stupid, because vampires couldn't be really nice or feel the things she was feeling. She was putting more than herself at risk.

Buffy sighed. So much for a short shower. The water had turned hot, and was stinging her now with its heat, turning her skin red. It didn't matter, now. The sweet-sharp ache was gone, reasoned into a part of herself she no longer liked to go. She finished up, deciding not to bother with make-up and her hair after all. The steam was too thick to see anything, anyway. She wrapped a towel around her and opened the door to go out and fetch her clothes.

Angel was in front of the door, his hand up to knock. He froze when she opened the door, his eyes darting over her quickly. He didn't miss anything—the cleft between her breasts the pressure of the towel created, the hip exposed where it was too small to wrap all the way around her, her wet hair, clinging to her neck. Her skin was still red, and dripping. Puffs of steam drifted lazily behind her. His mouth opened. His jaw worked. Nothing came out.

She moved coldly past him, and said, "You can use it, if you need it."

His head moved so his eyes could follow her.

"Yes?" she asked, raising a brow.

He pressed his lips together, eyes now firmly fixed on hers, but just as searching. "Are you done in here?" he asked finally, gesturing.

"Why?"

"I wanted . . . I was wondering if you'd mind if I took another shower."

"What? Why the hell for?"

Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he looked into the steamy bathroom and then back at her. Suddenly thinking better of it, he hastily reverted his eyes to the bathroom again. "It's been a long time since I had a . . . hot shower. It's been a long time since . . . anything." His eyes swung back to hers. "You have no idea how long it will take to feel clean again."

His eyes were burning holes into her. She was suddenly sure he meant more than one thing with his words, and it annoyed her. She wasn't in the mood for subtlety or underlying meanings. "Go ahead," she said dismissively, waving an arm. "But you used up all the soap, and all my shampoo, and all my conditioner. It was thoughtful of you, really. I don't know what you plan to use this time around."

The somewhat helpless, slack-jaw expression returned. "You said I could—"

"Never mind that," she said. "Make it snappy. And I'm going to be changing in here while you're in there, so don't come out without knocking."

His mouth closed as his eyes swiftly took in her body once again. For a moment, he was very still. Then he turned decisively on his heel, walked in the bathroom, and shut the door.

Buffy sighed and went over to her luggage. Unable to resist packing dozens of little dresses and strappy shoes, even though she was in New York for Slayer purposes only, she had brought five suitcases. She'd thought that even if she had to spend all her free time researching or getting stuff ready in her hotel room, she could still wear something pretty, to at least make her feel like she was somewhere special. Now, however, she wasn't in the mood. She pulled on a pair of leather pants and a black camisole. Then she sat down to sharpen stakes.

Angel didn't take nearly as long, this time. He knocked; she told him he could come out, and he entered the room, wearing only the sweat pants, a little wet from putting them on just after showering. He was still toweling his hair. Buffy had to resist the urge to ask him whether it was good for him, knowing it might reveal to him just what kind of mood she was in.

"I need more clothes," he said, breaking into her thoughts.

"There's another shirt in there," she offered.

"No." He gave his hair a last, vicious rub and left the towel around his neck. "I need real clothes."

"Real clothes?"

"Slacks. And . . ." He looked away from her, thinking. "Shirts with collars. And I need other stuff."

"Other stuff?"

"A razor. Shaving cream. A toothbrush—"

"Vampires brush their fangs?"

He turned to her, looking startled and slightly offended. "Of course. Things get stuck in your . . . ." He looked away again, uncomfortable. "You don't want to know."

"You're right," she said, giving her stake a shave. "I don't."

"And I need a comb. And a brush. And gel. And mousse. And there was this spray they used to have—"

"Do I look like Walgreen's to you?" she demanded suddenly, slamming the stake down on the table beside her. It clattered and then proceeded to roll off the table. "I can't leave you here and go buy all those things. And I'm certainly not taking you with me. You were happy looking like demon vomit yesterday; why the sudden burning need for shirts with collars and shaving cream?"

Angel looked at her steadily, but a thousand things passed behind his eyes before he at last opened his mouth and said, "Something's changed."

"Since yesterday?" she asked skeptically.

"Since this morning," he corrected.

She rolled her eyes. Technically, she had found him this morning. He'd had his first hot shower "in a long time" this morning. "Talk about a severe case of 'if you give a mouse a cookie,'" she said.

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Let's talk about alfalfa."

His mouth pursed. "Buffy . . ."

She stilled. Her name did sound good on his lips. Heat flowed through her veins, and she felt herself melt a little. Sighing, and trying to cover the sound, she took a book out of the duffel bag in front of her. She opened it to the marked page, and, trying to be all business, she walked over to where Angel stood looking at her, confusion written on his face. "It's this demon thingy," she explained, holding the book out to him so that both of them could see while she pointed to the drawing. "You really never heard of him?"

He stepped closer, and Buffy trembled as the hairs stood up on her arms, as if reaching out to touch him. He peered at the picture and then took the book out of her hands. His fingers were cool when they brushed against hers. "Acathla," he whispered.

"What?" she said, distracted. He was so close.

He looked down at her. His face was very near to hers, but his eyes were not. They were distant, and worried. "The Immortal has Acathla?" He frowned back down at the book. "This could be bad."

"Yeah. Big bad." She turned to look at the book, too, trying to focus on the matter at hand. "So you do know what it is?"

"Yes." He paused at her expectant look. "Don't you?"

"Of course," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, "but I want to hear your version."

He raised a brow, but did not dispute her. Instead, he launched into an explanation. "Acathla the demon came forth to swallow the world. He was killed by a virtuous knight who pierced the demon's heart before he could draw a breath to perform the act. Acathla turned to stone and was buried."

"Okay, yeah. That's what I've got, too," Buffy agreed. "So tell me again why the Immortal needs you? Does he need like a spell or some mojo to reanimate the do-hickey? Because if so, I can't see why he'd want you. Maybe my friend Willow, but . . . well, sorry, but you're just a bum."

Angel went to sit on the edge of the bed, bringing the book with him. He leafed through it for a moment, his brow furrowed. Then his eyes met hers. He closed the book onto his knee, resting one long, square hand over it. "If someone could withdraw the sword, Acathla would be reanimated."

"So, why doesn't the Immortal just—"

"It would have to be someone worthy," he said steadily, eyes still fixed on hers, as if waiting for something.

"A sword in the stone thing. I get it. But who . . . ?" She blinked into his burning gaze. "Oh no," she breathed, her eyes widening as she stared straight at Angel.

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A/N:** Thanks everyone for your comments. It's both surprising and pleasant to know what you think._

_Thanks once again to **a2zmom** for the excellent beta. This'd be harder to read without her._

_**Whitewolf**: You're right; it's never revealed whether the Immortal is a vampire. But since it's never stated either way, I chose to make my Immortala vampire (among other things). I'm interested in your opinion—do you think the Immortal is a god?_


	6. Chapter 6

"You're joking, right?" Buffy asked. "You're saying you're the worthy one? Out of like, all the vampires on the planet?"

Angel put the book aside and scrubbed his hand over his face. He had nothing to do with Acathla. He didn't want the world swallowed into Hell. It had nothing to do with him—and yet . . . A wave of darkness was roiling in him, surging through his chest. It was proud, powerful, and came as if its name had been called. He shuddered, and tried to push the wave back down. "I don't think so," he said at last, his voice strained. It couldn't be.

"Well, good," she said irritably, trying to hide her relief. "But that doesn't explain why the Immortal is so hot for your bod."

Restlessly, Angel stood up and took several steps away from her. If he was the one worthy to remove Acathla's sword . . . he could destroy humanity. Life would take its last, shuddering breath, and be gone from this world. It would be . . .

Sweet.

Angel struggled with the force of the exhilaration humming through him, at the same time remembering how good it felt to sink his teeth into human flesh, to break the ripe barriers of a firm, feminine neck, to feel her life force pour down his throat—thick, warm, still pumping. How it felt to gorge, to have so much that it smeared his face, making him feel sticky, hedonistic, alive. Angel put his hands on the sides of his head and closed his eyes. "What makes you think the Immortal wants me?" he asked wearily.

"I've been working on him for about eight or nine months," Buffy said, oblivious to Angel's sudden discomfort. She walked over to pick up her stake, and something in Angel howled, demanding self-defense. Instead, he remained passive, watching her, and she went on. "When summer started it was due time for the world and life as we know it to be threatened again. The theft of Acathla from the Watcher's Council had the Immortal's signature all over it . . . but the world didn't end. It should have, because I've gotten no where near close to finding out where he's keeping—"

Angel was trying to focus on her words, trying to be reasonable. Trying to figure out why bloodlust was suddenly singing through his heart and fangs, trying to figure out what it meant. "What makes you think the world should end just because it's summer?" he demanded, more harshly than he meant to.

"I don't know," Buffy went on, shrugging. "That's just the way these things work. You fight some evil force all year, and then right around graduation time everything goes out of wack. Welcome to Buffy's world." She shrugged again, looking at him curiously. His hands were on his head, cradling it, as if it hurt.

"So I finally got information out of one of the Immortal's stooges about why he hadn't done something with Acathla," she went on, tilting her head to peer up at him. "And the Immortal's friends? Not fun to catch. Turns out the Immortal needs this vampire named Angelus, and he was sending Curly, Moe, Larry and co. to Manhattan to go and fetch him." She paused. "So here I am." She examined her stake, as if idly. "Gonna tell me now why you're freaking out?"

Angel grit his teeth, resisting the sudden, insatiable urge to turn around and rip her voice box out. The next thing he would do would be to push her up against the wall and fuck her blind. Then he would give a little nip to her jugular, and maybe fuck her again. Then he would turn her. Then he would find Acathla. Maybe decapitate the Immortal on the way. Then he would destroy the world. Chaos would rain. Darkness would be eternal. It'd make him feel so alive.

But where was his sense of style? Buffy deserved so much more. She should live to see the world swallowed into Hell, and she deserved to be stark raving mad by the time he did it. He wondered where her family lived.

Angel hissed and forcibly removed his hands from his head. "I'm the one who has to pull out Acathla's sword," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Her hand tightened on the stake. "You just said—"

"I don't know!" he shouted, and then went shudderingly silent. He did not speak for the length of several breaths. When he did, his voice sounded like velvet over steel. "I believe I am the one. I believe I am so strongly that . . . if I _wanted_ to try it, I would, without a second thought to whether I was or not."

"Okay, one minute you're not worthy and the next minute you think you are?" Buffy asked testily. She did not seem at all perturbed by the violence in his voice or stance. In fact, she seemed more exasperated than anything else. "Explain to me how this swift mind-changing works, because I am so not getting it."

Angel tried to focus on the sound of her voice. There was something bright in it, something so sparkling that it could have been annoying had it not been pouring from a deeper radiance within her. Her voice matched her—small, but vibrant with quality. Even through the aggravation in her tone, it reached out to him, calming him, caressing the ridges of his forehead and soothing the yellow away from his eyes. The hunger for blood was still there, but the lusts of his soul were stronger. He wanted to overcome the demon for her, to be strong so he could be there for her and help her. He wanted to hope again.

At last, his shoulders slumped. When he turned around, his eyes were soft and brown and warm. "I don't want it," he said at last, his voice begging her to understand. "I don't want to be worthy of anything to do with Acathla or Hell or apocalypse. I didn't want to believe it." He shook his head and heaved another sigh. "I . . . I wasn't listening to all of myself when I answered you the first time. I do believe it—I just wish I couldn't."

Buffy's posture eased up a little. Her eyes softened, and he looked away. He didn't think he could bear the sympathy in her eyes. "Believe it or not," she said gently, "I know what you mean." She edged a step closer. Unable to bear her closeness—not when the demon was still clawing inside him, demanding, with equal desperation and longing, that he take the Slayer and destroy the world—Angel jerked away.

Stung, Buffy retreated, and a painful silence followed. When she spoke, her voice was harsh. "So, what are you, anyway?" she asked. "A schizoid?"

"What?"

"You said you 'weren't listening to all of yourself.' You mean like multiple personalities?"

He looked at her for a moment, and finally said, "Kind of." Then he turned away. The wave of bloodlust—the demonic insistence that he was worthy of Acathla—had died down, but it was still there, chanting through his stolen blood. It was never very far away. Taking the towel off from around his neck, he went back to the bathroom, unfolding the other T-shirt she had gotten him. This one was black.

Buffy followed, clutching the stake tightly, though her movements held hesitation. "But you don't want to wake up Acathla," she said tentatively, as if seeking confirmation.

He paused in the process of putting the shirt on, his eyes drawn to her by the catch in her voice. He had told her he was the one who could awaken Acathla and swallow the world into Hell. It was her duty—her very purpose in life—to slay him this instant without a second thought. But when he looked into her eyes he did not see death. What he saw was confusion, frustration, and not a little bit of pleading. His heart wanted to burst with the realization of what she was feeling: she knew she should slay him now, but she didn't want to.

"_Believe it or not,"_ she had said, _"I know what you mean."_ His eyes closed at the memory of her words. She knew what it was to be at war with herself, to know her destiny and all that she was capable of and wish that it was less, different, more innocent. He had not allowed her that sympathy, that moment of connection to him, yet still she reached out. By the apathy of whatever powers were out there—she was trying to save him.

"I don't want to send the world to Hell," he told her gently, and finished putting on his T-shirt.

"Why not?" she demanded, her voice unnecessarily loud. "Yesterday you wanted me to stake you. You said you didn't care about anyone, so I doubt this is a 'love for the human race' type of thing—or demon race, whatever. You don't even have a toothbrush, or that hairspray you like. Why not send the world to Hell?"

"Maybe if I'd found out about it yesterday, I'd've done it," he said. "At least," Angel admitted, "I know I wouldn't have cared. But now—"

"Yeah, now. You said. Things are different now. What you didn't say is why."

Angel looked uncomfortably around him, trying not to meet her eyes. The answer was simple. She needed his help.

She was the first, the only, to ever turn to him, to ever make him feel as though he could actually be worth something to anybody. He had tried helping people, on multiple occasions. But the world did not want his help, and he knew he was only being indulgent and self-pitying by imagining that anything he had done could be redeemed. And then entered Buffy—the Slayer, of all things. She should have been his worst enemy, but because of what she should have been, she was the enemy of his enemies and so she was his ally. Together, they could kill them. Kill them all. They could stop the Immortal and destroy Acathla, and though doing these things could never redeem him, they might at last bring peace.

But there was more to Buffy than killing vampires and saving the world, and it was that something more that inspired the strangest hope of all. There was Buffy kicking him in the alley and then hesitating because he was weaker than she, because it was not in her nature to hurt anyone when he was down. There was Buffy as she had been this morning when she awakened him with her scent, Buffy turned on and crying in the shower, her tears and her arousal revealing secrets he suspected she would have preferred to keep hidden. He could feel her goodness, her warmth and her compassion and her tenderness shining through, making the walls she'd built about herself fragile and vulnerable.

She made him want to keep that heart of hers safe—to warm it with his own. Somewhere between when she kicked him in the alley and now, a light had begun to shine within him, as though at the end of a deep dark tunnel. The light was golden, and looked like her.

How could he even begin to explain?

"You . . ." he started.

"Look," she interrupted impatiently. "One hot shower never changed anyone's life. I know for a fact that vampires like to destroy the world. It's a thing they do."

"Not all vampires," Angel said. At her annoyed expression, he looked defensive. "Most of them just like to talk big. Most of them have no vision."

Buffy scowled. "And let me guess. You just happen to be one of these vision-less vampires."

He pursed his lips and looked away. "No."

"Then remind me again how come you don't want Hell to swallow the world?"

"You said I could help you." His voice was very low.

Glowering, she crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh great," she murmured sarcastically. "Don't tell me you want to become a Slayerette. Who died and gave _you_ a soul?"

His head jerked up as if it was on a string, but after meeting her eyes for one, burning instant, he looked away again. She didn't know about his soul; he was certain now. He was pretty sure the gypsy curse wasn't on record anywhere, but there was no way to be positive. Now it was clear that she thought he was harmless completely because of this chip thing she'd mentioned. What exactly a chip was, he wasn't sure. It must have something to do with computers. Then again, maybe instilling vampires with souls had become common; maybe it was done with a chip.

From the few things Buffy had said, if Darla's soul really had been restored, the Slayer hadn't cared. Buffy had spoken of Darla with carelessness and indifference—just another vampire, just another pile of dust in the Slayer's wake. That was part of the reason why he had not told Buffy that he actually did possess a soul. He feared that if he told her, it would make no difference in how she thought of him. He was a vampire; a soul didn't make him human or worth her consideration. He still had all the lusts and desires of a demon—as the sudden need to get at Acathla and destroy the world had more than proved earlier. Looking at her now, it was obvious to Angel that even if Buffy was only being sarcastic when she mentioned him having a soul, him actually having one wouldn't change her mind about him. She treated the subject sneeringly, cavalierly, as if nothing could redeem him.

She was, of course, right.

But even if she had thought differently, he didn't want to use his curse as protection. He could not use it to escape any punishment owed him; what he had now was not an excuse for all the terror he'd brought human beings in his past. Most of all, if it did change her perception of him, he knew he wouldn't be able to stand having her look past the vampire into the human soul he possessed, only to see that it was lacking. He had not been a decent human being, before his turning. Since regaining his soul, he hadn't brought the world an ounce of light or beauty. His soul had turned out to be a complete cipher, filled only with guilt for his past. He didn't want her to see the truth of him, the real and honest truth, and see that he was worse than a nobody, that he was just as expendable and disgusting as any demon falling under her wrath.

"Even if you're not working with the Immortal," she said, breaking into his thoughts, "you said yourself he was all seductive or whatever." She edged toward him, her tone accusatory, suspicious. "Who's to say that if he offers you a toothbrush and some shirts with collars you won't rush over to join him?"

"I wouldn't do that."

"Maybe. But maybe he could make you do it. He could just capture you and force you to remove the sword. Then what?"

"I doubt he could make me withdraw the sword."

"There with the modesty again. You don't seem to understand. The Immortal is big and strong. You're a bum without hair gel. He could so kick your ass."

Angel paused. "Maybe. But that's not what I meant. I think there are probably rituals to be performed. Maybe an incantation is required, the death of an innocent person by my hand. He could never force me to participate, no matter how much he tortured me."

"Because of the chip," Buffy said slowly. Angel scowled and looked away. Buffy took a step into the bathroom, her small body threatening and aggressive in its stance. She had already decided what she was going to do with him, but all her reason was telling her she should be staking him right this instant. He should be realizing this, realizing there was no other way. He should be cowering in fear, begging her not to hurt him. He should be helping to convince her—with his fear and certainty that she was going to dust him—that dusting him was the right thing to do. Instead, he was making it harder. The look in his eyes was so . . . human.

"You don't know for sure what it takes to wake up Acathla," she pressed, edging forward. "And the Immortal seems to think it requires you, that he could get you to do it." She changed her grip on her stake, holding it now like the weapon it was. "You see my point," she murmured.

Angel looked away passively. "You're saying it would be better if you just staked me and had it done with," he said in a toneless voice.

"Last night you asked me to do it," she badgered, hoping to break him out of his cool façade of nonchalance. She took another step closer. "Would you be sorry, now?"

He met her eyes once again. "Yes," he said.

With a movement so fast he could not have stopped her, even at full strength, she closed the space between them, and placed the stake at his heart. For a moment, the world was suspended, her position taut against him, her stake trained on him. He was utterly still, not even pretending to breathe. His skin was cool but his eyes were somehow warm, filled with sympathy as he looked down at her. It was all she could do to grip the stake and not do something completely rash. He was the key to Acathla. He was the demon she had been sent to subdue. He was a vampire and she was the Slayer.

It was all she could do not to reach out and touch him.

Suddenly, she laughed harshly. "Bet you're really resenting that chip now, huh?" she rasped.

It was Angel who reached out to touch her. He wondered if she was going to stake him. He wondered if he cared, with her this close. He wanted to wrap himself around her—slim, trembling, golden girl—and never let her go. Instead, he reached out a hand, as he had in a dark alley just hours before, and touched her hair.

* * *

_**A/N:** Thanks once again to **a2zmom**. She rocks my socks!_

_Also thanks to everyone who's reading. Oh, and you can read this fic (and my other one) at my (spiffy new) lj. My name there is tkp ;o)_

* * *

_**  
Disclaimer:** Lines lifted from . . . lemme see . . . BtVS S1.1 "Welcome to the Hellmouth," S3.something "Helpless," and S2.22 "Becoming." Huzzah for stealing! Yay!_


	7. Chapter 7

He ran his fingers outside a lock of her hair, not through it, so that he barely touched it. She yelped and jumped back, as if stung. The stake clattered to the ground. "Don't touch me," she snapped.

Angel's face was a mask, withdrawn. "Okay," he said.

Buffy bent down to swipe up her stake, and said, almost as if accusing him of something, "I'm not going to stake you."

Angel blinked several times. "Why?" he asked, finally.

Buffy frowned. "Don't think I'm saving your measly existence for any other reason but that I can use you. This isn't some kind of . . ." She took a deep breath. "This isn't some kind of pity thing, just because you're a bum and a . . . a . . ."

"How can you use me?" Angel asked quietly.

She didn't know if he was asking because he wanted to know his fate or because he desired to go on pretending he wanted to helped her. She didn't care. "If the Immortal wakes up the alfalfa thingy some other way," she snapped, "having you around might just be the thing to stop him."

Angel was silent for several moments. "I doubt that if I'm not worthy to remove Acathla's sword that I'd really be worthy to stop his breath," he said finally. "If the Immortal can awaken Acathla on his own, you probably can't use me to stop him."

"What? You _want _me to make you a little pile of ashes?" Buffy snarled, holding up her stake.

He looked away again. For the second time, Buffy noticed his neck, how elegant it was, and how strong. How he was always exposing it to her by turning his head in just such a way. Her eyes widened slightly. She had thought he turned away like that because he was ignoring her, because he didn't think her questions were worth answering. But now that she considered this particular response, she wondered whether it wasn't some vampire sign of resignation—of submission.

Buffy swallowed, her mouth dry. His posture released the tension in her, and she lowered her stake. She needed to come up with a plan, not to completely wig out. It wasn't only desire and emotion that was making her hesitate to fulfill her Slayerly destiny—part of it was Slayer instinct in and of itself.

"We might be wrong," Buffy said, voicing her thoughts. "You might be wrong. Prophesies and curses and 'guess-who's-worthy-to-pull-out-the-sword' stuff work in weird ways. I should know, I've done my share of prophesy thingies. Even the Immortal could have it wrong. You could be the one to close Hell, not open it."

He shook his head slowly. "I don't think so."

"You got a death wish?"

"I'm dead already," he said, and smirked. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized she hadn't seen him smirk once yet this morning—evening. Whatever.

"Look, buddy," she said, shoving the stake in her back pocket and exiting the bathroom, "you're not helping your case any. I wouldn't stake you now even if you asked. I'm keeping you with me until I destroy that hunk of rock, even if it means missing the sales at Castel Romano for a whole month."

"Casa who?"

"A fancy outlet with to-die-for shoes," she confided, nodding. "Now," she began, pacing around the small hotel room and pursing her lips, as she often did while thinking. "I need to figure out where the Immortal's keeping his big rock, and what exactly you have to do with it. I also need to figure out what to do with you until . . ."

"Yes," he said. "If I'm going to be with you, we need to work a couple things out."

Buffy froze. The way he said "with you" sounded like the way Riley had meant it when he used to say, "I love being with you, Buffy." And Riley hadn't meant, like, "here in this room with you, Buffy"; he had meant _with_ you with you, as in together, like a couple. Of course, that wasn't what Angel meant, but it opened up a whole can of worms, anyway. She had just decided her fate for at the very least the next few days, possibly a month—or even longer. She'd be stuck finding a new radiator to chain Angel to, trying to figure out how to use him to destroy Acathla, and arguing with him about Fruit of the Loom. Buffy scowled. Now why didn't that sound that unappealing?—except the part about missing the McArthurGlen Designer Outlet at Castel Romano on sale day.

Okay, so he was right. They were going to have to "work a couple things out." He was talking about stuff like manacles and toothbrushes and shirts with collars, she suspected. Talk about a rock and a hard place. She was stuck between staking the guy and buying him hair gel. Buffy sighed. Her life was weird. "Okay," she said, "assuming I'm not going to leave you chained to a radiator while I work all this out, what would you need?"

"Well, the radiator is broken," he supplied helpfully, walking out of the bathroom. He appeared to be taking stock of the hotel room.

"Gee, thanks for letting me know, Mr. Obvious."

"I could pay for it to be fixed," he went on. "I could also pay for staying in this room. Or I could pay for a new room, with a better, stronger, harder-to-break radiator. I could pay for two rooms. I could pay for two suites. I could pay for one of those big, round, bath tubs. You know, with the hot water and the . . ."

"Jets?"

"Yeah. Those. I saw a bathtub with those, once."

"Hold your horses, mister. One room. Two beds. No Jacuzzi."

He looked disappointed. "No jets?"

"And tell me again why you have all this money and were living in a cardboard box?"

"I wasn't living in a cardboard box," he said, slightly offended. There was a pause, and he looked contemplative. "I was sleeping in the sewer."

"Answer the question," Buffy demanded irritably.

His head dipped down. "It's complicated."

"I've got time," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Try me."

He held her eyes for several moments; then his gaze dropped away. "It's blood money. Any high profile vampire tends to make a lot of it. I haven't wanted to use it. I wouldn't, except . . ."

"Except that this is for a good cause," Buffy finished thoughtfully. Her brain was clicking again. Something wasn't right. Darla wouldn't have shied from using what Angel was calling "blood money," no matter how many chips she had in her brain. "How come Darla never seemed to be rolling in it, then?" she asked.

Wearily, Angel walked over to the chair and sat down. His long fingers gestured dismissively. "I told you how vampires like to talk big. Darla . . . Existence is—was one big, long party for her." Buffy sat down on the edge of the bed and nodded. That sounded like Darla. "She spent as much as she saved. Most vampires do that, too." He shook his head. "You have no idea how many vampires were hurt by the stock market crash."

"The who?"

"October 29, 1929? Kicked off the Great Depression?"

"Oh," Buffy said, wrinkling her nose. "I knew that." She scowled. "Hey, real people were hurt by that too, you know. Living people."

"Of course."

Buffy frowned and shifted her weight. "So, you're saying most vampires don't look after all the money they steal so they're really no better off than the rest of us. Good to hear," Buffy said, shrugging. Then she pinned him with a stare and asked, "So how come you're different?"

His eyes were illegible. "I'm obsessive," he said simply.

Buffy shivered. His eyes were intent, hot, and very, very focussed on her. She repressed the urge to giggle nervously, not knowing how else to deal with such a confession. And then the full implications of what he had told her sunk in. "Wait. Are you . . . Are you telling me you're like a millionaire? I found a millionaire on the side of the road smelling like guano?"

Angel shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I divided most of my assets long ago." By division, he meant destruction. It had been blood money, and he had been ashamed of it. It wasn't his. He couldn't stand to give it away—not because he was opposed to charity, but because it made him feel dirty. Donating the money made him feel as though he was trying to buy his redemption, or at least purchase some small amount of solace. To punish himself, he had liquidated almost the entire fortune.

It wasn't until later that he'd realized just what a selfish fool he had been—no better than the demon he'd been before. Buffy could have no idea of all the "real people" he'd seen suffering in the thirties; she could have no idea how much of it he blamed on himself. He could have helped so many people, had he been able to see past his own pain and suffering. People had been starving in Missoula, and he had given up a fortune because it made him feel bad. It was not an act of which he could be proud.

"But you still have a lot, right?" Buffy persisted.

"Enough," Angel said, crossing his legs and lacing his hands together over his thigh. He looked around the room. "If you'll permit me to use a telephone, I can see about a withdrawal."

Buffy just stared at him. Was this really the bad-smelling bum from yesterday? Half of her scoffed and immediately discredited the idea that the vampire in front of her had a bank account and was offering to get money that he would then give to her. The other half warned that what he said was so out of wack that it was probably true, which sent a tiny thread of fear weaving through her. She should be very, very careful.

And yet, thinking it over, she couldn't see anything wrong with it. If he wasn't calling a bank she'd figure it out soon enough, and if he really didn't have any money, no big. She'd find a way to pay for the additional costs of keeping him around. And if he actually did have funds, would that be bad? Hell, it'd be great if every bad guy she fought could help fund her campaign to stop them from destroying the world—but then again, that definitely sounded too good to be true.

But then Buffy looked at Angel, and made up her mind. She stood up, and went over to her luggage. As she began to rifle through it, she went on, "Just so you know, I don't take charity. Not that I would expect charity from a vampire," she added hastily. "This is for the radiator. And maybe for a new room. And don't think, not for a moment, that I trust you just because you have moolah. I might just buy some magic manacles, or something, so I don't need a radiator."

"But you would be using my money," he said, following every movement from where he sat in his chair with his eyes. He smirked. "That's called charity."

"No," she said, surfacing from a suitcase with something clutched in her hand. "It's called stealing. Here ya go." She threw a small object and he caught it easily, only his wrist moving.

"What is this?" Angel asked, turning the small, silver object over in his hand.

"Duh, it's a cell phone," Buffy replied. She eyed him skeptically. "You do know what a cell phone is, don't you?"

"I've heard of them," Angel said. At her aghast look, he hurriedly added, "and I've seen them, of course. It's just so . . . small."

"That's just because your hands are so big and . . ."

He looked at her expectantly. "And?" he supplied mildly.

Buffy blushed. The correct word to end that sentence would most definitely be "sexy." Not for the first time, doubt washed over her. Sure, it made sense that if he was the key to opening up Hell through Acathla he could also be the key to closing it, but Buffy wondered if that was the real reason she was sparing Angel. She might have ulterior motives even she didn't want to face, such as wanting to fulfill some sick fantasy with a member of the race of her worst enemy, the enemy she had been sworn to slay. Except for the "sworn" part, because she'd never sworn to do anything. It had been thrust upon her. Her life was not fair, and she was standing here thinking a vampire's hands were sexy. Yuck.

Luckily, he did not press her to finish her sentence. Instead, he had found the hinges on the little box and opened it from the other side, and now he was looking at the unfolded phone skeptically. "It won't even reach from my mouth to my ear," he complained. "Don't you have something else?"

"Silk, hair spray, and rotary phones," Buffy ticked off, relieved that he was being annoying again, in his utterly amusing way. "You're such a big baby. Here," she said, and took the phone from him. She pulled out the antenna and placed the receiver to his ear. "Hold it like this. If you talk, they'll hear you."

He looked thankfully up at her and covered her hand with his cool one to take the phone from her. His finger lingered on her wrist for a moment longer than it should have. Buffy trembled and snatched away her hand. "Hello?" he said, into the phone.

"You have to dial first, you idiot!" she told him, grinning.

"Oh yeah," he said, taking the phone away from his ear. "I forgot." He looked thoughtfully at the phone for a moment, contemplatively chewing the inside of his cheek. "What's the number you call to get another number?" he asked.

"4-1-1."

He stared at the keypad for a long time and then fumblingly dialed the numbers. He put the phone to his ear again and said, "Hello?" He paused. "How are you?"

Buffy grinned again and hit him lightly on the arm. "Just ask for the number," she hissed.

Angel looked defensive. "I was just trying to be polite. No—no, not you," he said into the phone. "I need a number for a bank." A pause. "Yes, yes of course. Let me see . . . Oh yeah, Banque EEK." A longer pause. "Well, I should hope not. It's in Switzerland." He rolled his eyes. "Well, how was I supposed to know?"

For many moments Angel was silent, tapping his long, elegant fingers on the table beside him impatiently. "Yes, Geneva. Banque EEK. Certainly." After a while of Angel tapping his fingers, rolling his eyes, and saying the words "Geneva" and "Banque EEK," Angel turned to her. "How do I hang this up?"

"Here." Buffy took the phone away from him and pressed the "end" button. Then she turned to him incredulously. "Your bank is in Geneva?"

He looked startled. "Of course. Normally, I'd go to Switzerland in order to make a withdrawal, but . . ." He waved his hand negligently. "I figured you wouldn't approve of that. It takes nearly a month to get there by freight."

"By freight?"

He raised a brow. "The sunlight?"

"Oh yeah. So why bother?"

"Greater secrecy. The best way to keep a secret account is to deal directly with the bank, in person. No intermediary."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "I should have known you'd have a secret thingy. All the scaries have them." At his inquisitive look, she grinned. "Oh, you know," she said. "Mafia. Movie stars."

"Demons."

"What, all demons have Swiss accounts?"

"Any demon worth knowing about, yes. EEK was chartered by vampires. It must have been different in the seventeenth century, before—"

"Wait," she said, putting up her hand. "The seventeenth century? How long have you had this thing?" she asked incredulously.

He looked at her, again with surprise. "The account? Since 1753," he answered, as if it should be obvious. "Since I was made."

"So you've had a Swiss bank account for like, three hundred years?"

He looked slightly offended. "Two-hundred and fifty-one."

"Yeah, whatever. Wow. That's like, old. No wonder vampires get rich. All that interest. I didn't even know Switzerland was that old."

Angel raised a brow. "The Swiss have been administering private accounts since the Edict of Nan—"

"Hey," Buffy said, interrupting. "Does the Immortal have one?"

Angel's expression darkened. "The Immortal has his own Swiss bank."

"Wow," Buffy said, smiling, tickled by Angel's scowl. "A whole bank. What for?"

"To administer his investments," Angel answered impatiently. "Buffy, can I please call the bank, now?"

"Sure." She handed him the phone, and he began to dial. "I guess the Immortal is swimming in it," she goaded, grinning impishly. "When he grunted, she laughed. She moved his hand and sat down beside him.

His other hand, the one holding the phone, froze in the process of bringing the phone up to his ear. His eyes flicked to her legs, her hips, perched on the arm of his chair. He was very still. The phone hovered there in the air in his lax hand.

Alarmed, Buffy hastily stood up and backed away. Suddenly, she wondered how much he knew about the effect he had on her, whether he knew his body made her hot and tingly and his eyes made her insides all melty. She wondered particularly now, since sitting down beside him on the arm of his chair had been done in complete innocence. She could be flirty and sexy; she knew how to do it. But she hadn't been doing it. She wouldn't do that, not with a vampire. At least, she didn't think she would.

She'd just been amused by Angel's discomfiture at her mentioning the Immortal. She suspected he was jealous of him. She'd wanted to tease him. She'd been . . . Oh, rats. She'd been having good, clean, innocent fun teasing a blood-sucking demon-possessed vampire. The fact that she simply enjoyed talking to him was scarier than anything else she could possibly feel. And now he thought . . . .

His arm was still poised mid-air. "What?" she asked, anxiously.

He was very, very still. "That was the first time I heard you laugh," he said lowly, his gaze raking over her again. Then he turned away and brought the phone up to his face.

Buffy sucked in a breath, her heart skipping a beat. She wondered if he could hear that, too. She felt her face growing hot. She made a small movement back toward Angel, but stopped when he said, "_Ja_?" He spoke into the phone; his face was turned away.

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_**A/N:** Much thanks, credit, praise, and hugs to a2zmom for the beta._

_**A/N2:** There really is a bank EEK in Switzerland. Except it's Bank EEK, not Banque. I was going to name it something clever and bloody in Latin, but while researching I saw EEK and couldn't help myself. Now, if anyone knows anything about shopping in Rome, I'd be much obliged ;o)_


	8. Chapter 8

"_Guten Tag_," he replied to someone on the other end, and then proceeded to fire off a rapid stream of German.

Buffy's eyes widened. How come the smelly bum she had found on the side of the road knew German? She'd thought he was nothing but a fledgling with hygiene issues and a chip, and the plan had originally been to beat him until he helped her find out about Angelus so she could stake him. All of the sudden, he was Angelus, and he wasn't smelly, and she wasn't staking him. Now he was helping her voluntarily, saying he had a Swiss bank account, and speaking perfect German. The language sounded violent, guttural, and somehow sexy coming from his throat.

An alarm bell went off in Buffy's head. "Hey." Angel went on talking. "Hey!" she snapped, more loudly. "Angel. In English. You know, _Ingles_?"

This time, Angel moved the phone away from his mouth when he spoke to her. "Buffy, he's Swiss. _Was_?" he murmured, bringing the phone up again. "_Nine._"

"I don't care what kind of cheese he is," Buffy said flatly, her tone brooking no protest. "If you're making plans to kill me or ambush me, I want you to do it in English so I can stake you before they get here. Got it?"

Angel looked at her for a moment, then briefly nodded his assent. "_Entschuldigen Sie bitte_," he said into the phone. "Please," he went on into the receiver, "may we conduct the transaction in English? _Ja_. Yes, you understand."

The alarmed bells in Buffy's head increased in volume tenfold. He said "you understand" forcefully, as if he didn't expect the person on the other end to disobey, as if he was someone used to getting what he wanted. Buffy's eyes narrowed as she examined his expression—not hesitant, not petulant, not frustrated. He was rattling off numbers and dates into the phone, his voice was smooth, confident, condescending, even. He looked firm, intelligent, in control. He was no longer slouching, and Buffy noticed for the first time just how broad his shoulders were, how powerful. His hands were no longer just big and sexy, either; they looked strong, capable. They were hands that could kill a man with little or no effort.

She'd given him her phone with a mixture of skepticism and amusement. An impotent, homeless vampire with a hang up on fashion designers was going to get her a tub with jets? At the time, it had been funny. Now, it was no laughing matter. He could be speaking in code, for all she knew, hiring vampire henchmen to gang up on her after all.

She was of half a mind to jump up and grab the cell from his disgustingly white hand. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was a bum and she was the Slayer. She was in control; she called the shots; vampires were beneath her and this one shouldn't be different than any other.

She heard Angel's voice rise. "No," he said, his tone hard and distinct. "No," he repeated forcefully into the phone, after he had waited a moment. "Not likely. I won't be—" He stood up, pacing back and forth across the room, ignoring where Buffy sat on the bed. When he spoke, his voice was impatient. "Yes, but you can't possibly—" A pause. Angel's jaw was set tightly, his eyes dark and impenetrable. "Yes. Yes, I see." He paused, and she could see fury blaze briefly in his eyes. "No. I will get back to you." He took the phone away from his face and stared at it for a moment, his hand convulsively clenching around it. "I want to hang up on them," he growled lowly, thrusting the phone at her. "How do I do it?"

Buffy's lips twitched. She took the phone and looked at it, as if studying it. "Well," she said thoughtfully, "you press 'end.'"

He scowled and grabbed the phone back. After a moment, he pressed a button, then tossed the phone on the bed in disgust. He stalked over to the chair and flung himself into it, looking frustrated and intensely unhappy.

Buffy suddenly felt much better. He may be able to conjure up that commanding, no-nonsense aura, but that didn't mean anyone was going to listen to him. He couldn't even hang up a cell phone.

Still, a part of her was annoyed—at herself, for not taking into account when she gave him free reign of her cell that this vampire was more than he seemed, and at him, for . . . for speaking German so well. She still needed to be careful, to find out what exactly was up with this guy. "So," she said, her voice purposely very even, "how did it go?"

"They wouldn't give me my money."

"Why not?"

He sighed, some of the tension leaving him as he waved a hand in the vague direction of the phone. "It wasn't like I remembered. They've upped security. I haven't accessed the account in a long time and . . . they want to make sure I'm who I say I am."

"Well, can't you prove you're you somehow?"

His eyes met hers briefly, then quickly, uncomfortably sidled away. "They wanted me to arrange a meeting. They happen to have an executive in Manhattan on business tonight. As I understand it, he just needs to see me to verify that I'm still. . . Angelus."

Buffy pursed her lips and asked bluntly, "Are you still Angelus?"

Suddenly, he looked miserable. "I don't have much of a choice about that."

She shrugged. "So, tell them. Go see 'em and make 'em give you your money bags." She tilted her head. "Does it come in bags? With dollar signs, like on _Duck Tales."_

His eyes jerked back to hers, startled. Then he closed his mouth, swallowing. "Alright, Buffy," he said softly, eyes steady on hers. "While I'm out, I'll catch a show. Maybe if I get hungry afterwards," he added, "I'll grab a neck to eat."

Buffy inhaled sharply. She wasn't sure whether she'd really meant that he should meet with the bank alone, conveniently forgetting that he was a dangerous vampire she wanted to keep chained to her radiator, or whether she hadn't even thought about it when she made the suggestion. Either way, she wasn't being careful, and it ticked her off. "I'd go with you, of course," she said irritably.

"No."

"What?" she demanded, unsure whether she'd heard right.

"No, you couldn't go with me."

Buffy studied him for a moment. "See, usually a vampire tells me 'no, don't do that,' when I'm about to put part of a picket fence through him. The funny part is I do it anyway. Because getting told what to do by blood breath? So not my thing."

"It's the bank," Angel explained, standing up. He turned away, running an impatient hand through unkempt hair. "It's evil."

Buffy made a face. "What bank isn't?"

Angel shook his head, swinging back to face her. "EEK is an arm of the demon world. It's run by humans, but it has a demonic clientele, and its shareholders have no moral qualms. If the bank or the clients feel that their secrecy is threatened, they'll take care of it the way demons do. If I came with the Slayer, they would immediately assume that I and all of my connections were a liability. There would be no way I could get to the money, and we would probably both be dead."

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "You're telling me you were trying to get money out of a demonic bank which would come and kill me if they knew just who's cell phone you were using?"

He looked mildly defensive. "I told you it was chartered by vampires."

He was right; she should have known. In fact, she should just be assuming the worst when it came to Angel. After all, the Immortal was after him, and the Immortal had his finger in many evil, demonic pies. Which, come to think of it, might actually prove convenient in this instance. Crossing her arms over her chest, Buffy tapped her fingers on her elbow. "An arm of the demon world?" she repeated slowly. Tilting her head, she asked, "Are we talking severed arm, or well-attached and functioning arm?"

"What?"

"I mean, is this bank of yours well connected? High profile? All that 'know how to win friends and influence people' mumbo-jumbo?"

"What are you saying?"

"We could use this," she said, biting her lip. She glanced at him quickly and amended, "I could use this. Look, the Immortal and I have been playing _Where's Waldo _for three weeks, and I'm just lucky I found you first. But this—conveniently evil, thank you—bank could send your name down the demon grapevine and bring the Immortal's little pretties straight to you in a jiffy. Then I could figure out what the Immortal wants with you. And kill a lot of bad guys in the process."

The idea was growing on her. Information with a side of carnage was always good. Besides, whenever the world was being threatened (which was, admittedly, always) it felt good to have a plan, even a hackneyed crazy one. In fact, hackneyed crazy ones were the best kind, because that kind was hers, and her plans worked. Most of the time. Buffy tapped her lip, brow furrowing. "The evil tellers don't know I'm the Slayer. Can't we just, you know, not tell them?"

Angel shook his head. "They would know right away you're human," he pointed out.

"Thought you said it was run by humans?"

"For the most part. I'm not exactly sure how they work. But they would know."

"And me being human and you being a vampire and us being together isn't exactly kosher," Buffy said thoughtfully. Impatiently, she waved a hand. "There has to be a way."

Angel merely stared at her, his muscles tense, his features impassive. For a single, strange moment, she felt as though the air in the space between them was thinner somehow, and it was hard to breathe.

Resolutely, she began to pace, as if that could break the pull of his stare. Instead she could feel his eyes following her, and all she could think of was the feel of his eyes on her skin. She wondered whether he was doing it on purpose, distracting her from thinking of a solution simply by a look in his eye. He could, she realized once again, have the capacity for a little bit of thrall.

Buffy stopped suddenly. An image of Xander sucking on spiders slipped through her mind. Riley confessing something, and being . . . ashamed. And . . . Giles? "Dracubabes," Buffy announced happily.

"What?"

"Dracula's skank trio. Think Christina Aguilera, multiplied by three and even sluttier. Anyway, they had a thing for my Watcher. I don't think they wanted to turn him, more make him their boy toy. And that's disturbing on about a million levels. Wouldn't something like that work?"

"Lovers," Angel concluded flatly. "You want us to pretend to be lovers."

Buffy felt as though she'd landed on a solution of which he'd been perfectly well aware. He stood stock still, staring at her in the exact same way—as if willing her to think of a different answer. Buffy shifted her weight, feeling as if she'd somehow been left behind in this conversation and not liking the feeling. "You mean like—like," she started. "Um. I could pretend to be your girlfriend."

"Sort of." His hand curled into a fist at his side. "No. Not . . . really," he said, gritting his teeth. "You could pose as my . . . mate. Which," he continued, as if grudging the explanation, "would excuse your . . . humanity."

"Well?" Buffy put her hands on her hips, annoyed that she was still obviously missing something. "Girlfriend, mate, potato, pahtado. Sounds like semantics to me."

"You'd be—" He quickly changed the direction of his sentence. "It's more involved than . . . that."

Buffy scowled. "You mean I'd be like your wife?"

His eyes widened momentarily, still fixed on the floor. "Vampires don't . . ." His hand jerked in a small, awkward movement, the first uncontrolled move she'd seen him make. Then his eyes went dark again, impassive, and he was very, very still. "Matrimony is holy. This . . . wouldn't be."

Involuntarily, Buffy's gaze darted toward the bed. Just as quickly as he had, she looked away. She swallowed. "You mean because there's a lot of biting," she announced abruptly, lifting her chin. "You'd be drinking my blood and stuff."

"_No." _Angel's lips were a flat line, his eyes burning little holes into the floor. "No," he said again, more softly.

"Well, it's not like I'd ever let you bite me," she said. She was nibbling on her lips, thinking. Abruptly, she nodded. "But this could work. I could be like . . . your own personal donor. This evil EEK ought to understand that. You know, one bank to another. Blood, blood money, it's all the same, really." She went over to the bed and picked up the phone. "Let's call them and find out."

Angel frowned at the phone, his eyes flicking from it to her and back again until they came to rest on her at last. "You should know that if EEK finds out who you really are, they'll come for you. And they're not people you want to upset."

She was unconcerned. "I've upset worse. I upset a god. I upset the root of all evil. I upset a lady with a snake head that looked kinda like a penis, and found out Doublemeat is a vegetarian enterprise. And the fast food conglomerate? Now those are people you don't want to upset. So you know what? I'm all set up for some upsetting."

He shook his head, stepping forward. "You should also remember that we don't even know how many of the Immortal's lackeys are actually here in Manhattan."

Buffy shrugged dismissively, resisting the urge to back up. "I've taken them on before."

He stepped forward again, nodding, acknowledging the truth of her words. "But not _en masse," _he added. He took another step forward, now so close it would be so easy to touch him. "And not while fighting EEK at the same time."

"And yet, somehow, I'm not afraid."

Brown eyes peered down at her, hot, intent, thoughtful. "Maybe you should be," he said softly.

He was standing much, much too close. There were tingles all down her spine, and her palms were beginning to sweat. It wasn't fair that he could do this to her. She reached out, grabbed his hand, jerked it up, and placed the phone into it. Then she closed his fingers over it in a fist, her other hand still in a hard grip on his wrist. "I'm tired, Angel," she grit out. "I'm tired of the Immortal and I'm tired of New York and I'm tired of you. I just want to get rid of you so I can go home and have some peace and quiet. Now call your bank and tell them we're coming, or I'll be forced to do something even more drastic."

For a moment, she thought he was going to disobey her. There was a flash of something across his face, something like longing, and then his eyes dropped to where her hands held his fist. His other hand covered hers, his fingers cool, and then he began to pry her fingers loose. Realizing that he couldn't call anywhere if she was locking his hand over the phone that way, she let go. He didn't look at her, and turned away. She saw him dial, and bring the phone up to his face. His back was like a wall.

* * *

A/N: Much thanks to a2zmom. Many of the best lines are hers, and she really made this chapter what it is. 


	9. Chapter 9

"Later tonight?" Buffy repeated, after Angel had related his conversation with the bank to her. EEK had proven amenable to him bringing a human companion, and had arranged for them to meet with their Manhattan executive at three-thirty a.m. "Angel, that's called early tomorrow morning. It's the early bird not getting any worms because the worms are still asleep. It's . . . primordial, is what it is. Three-thirty is the primordial ooze of tomorrow, and tell me again why we can't do this tomorrow _night?"_

"Their executive will only be here tonight." He sat with his arms on the arm-rests of the chair, staring blankly in front of him. His voice was very flat. "They extended the meeting time as a courtesy."

"Courtesy to who? The ooze?"

"To me."

"To hell with you," Buffy pouted. "I need my beauty sleep."

Angel stared at her for several seconds. "No, you don't," he said softly, and looked away. "EEK—the account manager—they didn't want to inconvenience me by interfering with my . . . hunting."

"Hunting?" Buffy repeated. "Oh. Right. They don't know you're neutered."

His grip tightened on the arms of the chair. "I am _not _neutered."

"Whatever you want to call it. If they're going to have such a problem with me being the Slayer, then you'd better not tell them about your little problem either."

Angel remained immobile, scowling. Buffy was referring to the chip he didn't have, but she was right. EEK wouldn't be nearly as hospitable to them if they found out he had a soul. Corporations, firms, and institutions who dealt with demons—including all the big names: Weyland-Yutani, Wolfram and Hart, EEK, etc,—had this thing for evil, and were wary of ensouled clients, as a rule. They always thought they were out to get them.

Buffy went on discussing her plans as she sorted through her clothes, searching for an outfit to wear that night. Angel watched her from the shadows. Dresses, shirts, skirts, slacks and accessories were strewn about the bed and radiator so willy-nilly that it looked as though there'd been an explosion in her suitcases, and Angel was all too certain he'd caught glimpses of satin—nightgowns, negligées, slips—was that lingerie? His fingers curled into a fist, his face a study of displeasure as he avidly followed her every move.

He wanted to change his mind, to take it all back, to tell her he couldn't put on this act she was asking him to play. But it wasn't true. He knew with sudden certainty that he would do anything she asked, merely because she asked it.

He regarded the revelation with both resentment and a certain kind of reverence. He had stopped caring about anything; he hadn't wanted to have to care about anything. She was giving him a task, something to do—someone to work for. He found it disgruntling, invigorating, overwhelming, inspiring—frightening.

Angel opened his fist, staring at his palm, stark in the shadows. She had said she wanted to meet with Banque EEK so she could get rid of him sooner. That would be best for both of them, he supposed, and yet . . . He didn't want it to be over. He wanted to go on helping her, protecting her. She could use him. She might . . . need him.

"I don't think it'll take that long for the Immortal to track us down," Buffy said, and Angel focused completely on what she was saying. She was outlining what she thought they should do after the meeting while they waited for the Immortal to find them. "But in the meantime we should spend your money. Find more ways to call attention to ourselves." She frowned, doubtfully examining a pink sundress before tossing it aside. "It would've been so much simpler if we could've just kicked some demon ass to let the Immortal know the Scourge of Europe is back in business. Except for you'd be like, the Scourge of Manhattan, and there aren't any demons in the Big Apple to, you know, scourge." Her nose wrinkled as she dug around in her suitcase. "Maybe Giuliani scared them off."

"There are demons in New York."

"Well, yeah. A couple. There's you," she pointed out, turning from a pile of halter tops to roll her eyes at him. "And I've staked a few other vampires since I've been here—a very few, which is the problem. I never thought I'd say this, but I miss Willy the snitch." At his blank look, she explained, "He had a bar. Willy liked to cater to demons. And I liked to beat Willy up."

Angel looked thoughtful. "There was a demon club in Chelsea. It's probably still there." He drummed his hand on the chair, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Buffy had gone very still. "Except it never was as popular as the bar off 44th near seventh," he went on. "That one attracts a theater-loving crowd though, which is for the most part harmless. Unless there's another Sondheim versus Lloyd-Webber feud. That can get a bit . . ." He trailed off. Buffy had stood and taken a step closer, and her features were hard. "There's another one uptown that attracts the worst kind," he said, his tone deferential. "That would be best for what you're looking for."

Buffy took another step forward. "All this time, you knew where these places were, and you never said anything?"

Angel regarded her mildly. "You never asked."

Buffy scowled and pointed to the phone resting beside Angel on the table. "Call your bank back. Tell them we're not going."

Angel glanced at the phone, then slowly turned his gaze back up to her. "That would be unwise."

"No. What was unwise was not telling me you knew where these demon hang-outs were before now. The whole EEK charade idea is to get information. If I can walk into a bar and knock some heads together to find out what I need, I—" Buffy stopped suddenly, as if choked. "I can go home that much sooner." She put her hands on her hips in an authoritative way and leaned forward. "Call them back. Now."

Angel simply stared at her for a long time. "What would you have me tell them?" he asked finally, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Tell them—I don't know," she said bitterly, waving a hand. "Tell them your play-mate doesn't want to play."

Something like hurt flashed across his eyes at the accusation in her tone, and then his gaze turned hard. "It's too late to cancel," he said crisply. "It would be suspicious. They won't look well on it."

She looked like she was about to stamp her foot. "I don't care how they'll look on it."

"Buffy." His tone was a gentle reprimand.

"Angelus."

He flinched. From the brief surprise in her eyes, he could tell she hadn't meant it to sting. He looked away again. "Do not ask me to do this."

She gave him a long, hard look—but she did not ask. Instead she spun on her heel to face the clothes she'd spread on the bed, tossing them about before grabbing something black and leather. Then, without another glance in his direction, she whisked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Angel stared at the shut door for a long time. He had hated her plan before, but at least he had thought he was being useful. Now it seemed he had only made things worse, and he wondered if he should have somehow known that he couldn't possibly be of help to her. He should have realized she was planning the meeting with EEK because she hadn't seen another way to access the demon network of New York to get the Immortal's attention. He should have figured out that she hadn't sussed out those few, well-hidden demon hang-outs that still thrived on Manhattan, despite numerous Slayers who had managed to make the city cleaner than most.

But he hadn't. And he dreaded that the reason he hadn't was because there was a part of himself that wanted to play a game with Banque EEK—because there certainly was a part of himself that was very interested to see what Buffy would look like, draped across his arms, limp, pale, begging, his little human bistro. Or maybe he hadn't because some small part of him knew that if she had a quick way of getting the information she wanted, she would be done here, and leave . . . him.

It made him sick. It didn't matter if he was going to be helping her. He couldn't make up for the things he'd done; he wasn't capable of being the sort of man who deserved—anything at all. He was a demon who wanted to fuck her, ached to drink her dry, thought she might look cute naked and bruised and acting like his little pet. He was that person, and he was going to have to show it to her—this woman, who brought his poor, beleaguered soul its first ray of sunshine, first moment of hope.

His body ached at the thought of her, his mind a mass of confusion as he tried to figure out what she was, how she could do the things she did to him—and the door opened.

It was almost dusk, and the light was gray, but he could see quite clearly. Her dress was short, exposing more than half her thighs, and there was a slit up one leg. The black leather snaked up her waist, hugging, sinuous, enviable, reaching up to cup her breasts and display just enough of them for anyone looking to perfectly imagine the rest.

She had selected this dress on purpose, thinking it would go a long way to convincing EEK that there was nothing wrong with him and that she was just a hot little piece on his arm. She was right, he guessed, but what he saw when he looked at her was a woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it. If he hadn't known what she was wearing it for, he might have had to guess that what she wanted and knew how to get was a long, hard night up against a wall, but he knew that this was business. She was dressing to play a part, to get information, and eventually, save the world. The bright, hard-edged determination in her made both wonder and admiration surge in him in a warm, unexpected way.

It also made him want to gather her up and never let her go, to protect her, to keep her safe from this world. He saw a blade-like creature, hard and sleek, dress stitching aggression into every part of her and emphasizing her tight, lithe muscles, but he had also seen warmth in her—pity, trust, understanding. Underneath the hardness, the lines, and her sheer will-power there was a softness that made the outside seem brittle in comparison. She looked sexy, powerful and strong, and it made his mouth go dry and need stir deep inside him, but she also seemed somehow vulnerable, and that made him ache.

She stood there for a moment, gauging his reaction. Then she tossed her head, put out a leg, and stuck her hand petulantly on her hip. Her expression was seething with resentment. "Gonna tell me you like my dress?"

"No," he said, and then met her eyes. "I mean . . . I forgot . . ."

The darkening room was silent for a very long time. Slowly, she closed her legs, and looked down. "Well?" she demanded, her voice smaller, now. She wrapped her arms around herself. "What did you forget?"

"To tell you . . . you—should have worn something with a neck."

"Huh?"

"Your neck is unmarked. Vampires . . ."

"Oh." It was gross, but she got it. She went over to the bed, still strewn with the contents of her suit cases (except the underwear, which she'd hidden), and found a stylish scarf. It was flimsy and gauzy and baby blue, not such a match with the outfit, but it might do. She hung it around her neck. "Will this work?" she asked, turning towards him again.

He was silent for a moment, still looking at her neck. Then he came to her and took the ends of the scarf, wrapping the cloth around her neck with a few complicated twists and ties that very effectively covered the spot vampires liked the most. He put the long end of the scarf over her shoulder, scowled, and tugged the other end of it out, trying two longer ends, one over each shoulder. He did not touch her—not even a casual brush of his hand—the entire time.

Buffy was trying not to shudder. She should have thought about the fact that there were supposed to be bite marks. Riley had—

She was not going to think about Riley.

She was going to think about the meeting with EEK—just as she had been telling herself she would ever since it had occurred to her that it would be impossible to play this part without thinking of Riley. When she had conceived this plan, she hadn't let herself consider him at all. She had a job to do; she knew how to get it done quickly. She wanted it over and that was that.

As it turned out, the plan was all in vain. If Angel had told her before hand that there was an easier way to get the attention of demons in Manhattan—and thus the Immortal's lackeys—she wouldn't have to be doing this. It was his fault, and—and she was determined not to think about the fact that he wasn't a mind-reader, and that she hadn't been exactly clear as to why she'd thought EEK was their last resort.

It was still, she had to acknowledge, a good way to grab the Immortal's attention. But memories of Riley aside for the moment, it irked her that she hadn't packed for the occasion. Hooker boots and fishnets were definitely lacking, and it was sheer luck she happened to have the dress. She'd thrown it in her suitcase at the last second, even though what Xander tactfully called "her whoring days" were over. It was trashy, something she'd only worn once or twice, but it seemed the right thing to wear when dressing up as a vampire play-mate.

Of course, it wasn't as though anyone had to wear anything special to attract a vampire. Giles, in a short lecture she remembered yawning over, had told her they were drawn to bright colors—but you could wear anything, really. You could be wearing drab olive—military issue, the kind with reinforced elbow and shoulder patches and a high neck. A man wearing that could be bitten, and his girlfriend, whirling around from dusting the three other vampires she'd been fighting, could smile at him and a job well done—at first, not noticing he'd been bitten at all. He might smile back a little, wavering where he stood.

Then Riley fell, and Buffy rushed to his side. She touched his forehead—sweaty, pale, cool; then she touched his neck, and her hand came away wet. She had let him come on this patrol. She had let her guard down, and the man she loved was wounded, perhaps dying, because of her. She was so busy tearing off her coat, using it to stop the bleeding, crying and blaming herself, that she didn't notice anything else. The hand not applying pressure touched his lips, assuring herself he hadn't drunk; she dragged desperate fingers over various pulse points, eager to feel again that the beat was healthy, strong. She was so concerned with his head, his throat, his life and life force she so feared were still pouring out of him, that her hands didn't wander farther down.

It was dark, and the forest was shadowy, and she had been so busy fighting her three vampires that she hadn't noticed the fourth, hadn't noticed the vampire attacking her boyfriend, sinking her fangs into his throat. It was dark, and the forest was shadowy, and maybe that was why she hadn't noticed afterwards that it had given him an erection.

Angel was clutching the blue cloth he had tied around her neck, staring down at her with eyes that seemed to her hot with promise. Buffy's own eyes refocused and settled on his insolently. "Humans who do this are sick," she announced with a hiss.

He instantly loosened his hand, startled, and stepped away from her again. Buffy stood there for a moment, her eyes narrowed and defiant. Then she squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and resolutely turned to find a suitable pair of shoes. A part of her believed what she had said. Vampires were sick. The idea of this mate schtick was sick. Riley was sick—and yet, here she was, continually glancing at Angel as she rooted around for her strappy heels, thinking he was quite possibly the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. The idea that she was going to pretend to be his lover made her pulse continue to notch up despite her slight nausea at the thought.

She had loved Riley. She had wanted him and made love to him, but that hadn't been enough for him. She had known, on some level, that she wasn't giving him everything, that he needed more, that love should be bigger, better, more all-consuming than this—but in the end, he had wanted the things she could never give him. He had been bitten on patrol and had liked it more than anything she could ever do for him, so much so that he had needed more of it, and he had had to go to—

She had been inadequate. That was the long and short of it. She wasn't even able to interest a demon, which seemed to her an all time low. She'd tried to dress for this EEK meeting in a way that she thought might be attractive to a vampire, but she had elicited zero reaction from Angel. He had only pinned his eyes to her neck in a way that made her skin crawl.

What disgusted her more than anything was that she could be at all disappointed by that, by the thought that maybe she wasn't the sort of woman a vampire liked. She didn't want to be that sort of woman. She wanted them to fear and to loathe her. She wanted to be the Slayer.

But a Slayer didn't let her boyfriend get bitten in the midst of what should have been a simple patrol. A Slayer didn't have a boyfriend who had to slip off in the middle of the night to get what he needed from someone else. She didn't ache at the thought of the vampire standing across from her touching her, kissing her—using teeth.

Angel was silently watching her put on the shoes she'd finally found, his attentive gaze missing none of her fumbling movements. At last he said, quite gently, "Some humans do it for protection, Buffy. Some areas get to be so run down that being a vampire's mate saves your life. It was like that in Trannyslvania in the nineteenth century."

Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Did you—"

"I stayed away from there in those days," Angel said hurriedly. "Those guys were way too into parlor tricks. And absinthe."

Grimacing, Buffy said, "I'll bet Dracula had plenty of mates."

"Yes, but absinthe. And opium." Angel's voice was quick. "He had vast quantities of opium."

"He wasn't thinking about opium last time I saw him," she said bitterly.

"You mean you met—"

"Come on. This isn't the first time I've done the scarf thing." The Master had bitten her, Dracula had bitten her, and she hadn't enjoyed it. Well, she had enjoyed it—a little—when Dracula had bitten her, but it hadn't been the biting, it had been the . . . the thrall thing, and his eyes, and the way she barely felt it when he sank into her, his fangs were that sharp—but she hadn't enjoyed it. No, not her. Not the Slayer.

In the shadows, Angel was silent. Then: "Dracula bit you?" His voice was a low.

Buffy glowered, hating him for giving her something else to remind her of Riley. "No need to get jealous," she snapped. She stood up and began to empty her purse, slamming one thing after another down on the little table by the door to make sure she had everything. She'd sometimes bitterly wondered whether Riley had been jealous of Dracula's power over her—or had it been the simple fact that she'd gotten to be bitten, while he had merely nearly been seduced by three undead concubines?

Maybe his taste for being a donor had started then, and she could blame herself a little less for that patrol gone so terribly wrong. And yet, believing that didn't make her feel any better. She still hadn't given him what he needed. She'd still awakened one night to find him gone—after a series of nights of half-waking and being sleepily puzzled by the empty space on the bed beside her. She'd been awake enough, that time, to hear the front door opening, awake enough not to drowsily assume he was in the bathroom, or scavenging the left-over pizza in the refrigerator downstairs. She'd thrown on her clothes, and followed him.

She tracked him across town, curiosity and a slowly tightening suspicion in her stomach keeping her from overtaking him. She reached Crawford Street, and suddenly, she knew. She knew well enough not to follow him to the mansion, not to open the door, not to climb the steps to the sounds she heard. She knew well enough that she would see him, punctures in his throat, chest, wrists, his head lolling back in ecstasy, fine rivulets of blood tracing muscle on his beautiful body and smeared across his thighs. She knew who would be between those thighs, whose teeth were gently latched at his testicles, whose blonde, blood-matted head that was, bobbing back and forth to lick him clean and dry.

Darla had always had abysmal taste in men.

"I thought vampires liked to kill people, not keep them around," Buffy muttered acerbically, trying not to think about it too much. Darla, off course, hadn't been able to kill Riley. She could only give him as much pain as he wanted—or as much as he could stand, because Buffy guessed that sometimes he even wanted more than he should have—and then the chip kicked in.

"For the most part," Angel answered uncomfortably. "But keeping a human partner provides a ready supply of . . ."

"Blood."

"Yes."

His answer was clipped, short, not giving an inch. When he remained silent, Buffy knew what he was thinking about. Blood was not the only thing a vampire could get from a human. Darla's hand had been working Riley's blood-and-cum soaked dick for him, even as he covered her hand with his so she could turn and lap at the veins she'd opened in his wrist. Darla's other hand had been between her own legs, and she had been loving it as much as Riley.

They had needed Darla. She had a network of demon contacts more useful in figuring out Glory than the Watcher's Council ever would be—but that wasn't why Buffy didn't stake her just then. Riley had tipped his head forward, opened his eyes, seen her standing there, and jerked the hand he had wound in Darla's hair. He'd pulled her up beside him and behind him, and said—cracked voice bleeding with agony, shame, guilt—"It's not her fault. It's mine." But that wasn't why Buffy hadn't staked her, because it wasn't his fault either.

It was hers.

Darla had stepped away from him, and smirked. Had she not been so keen on self-preservation, Darla would have laughed. Darla, Buffy reminded herself, with a sudden stinging burr of realization, was Angel's Sire. How many times had Angel sat in Riley's place, and loved it? He was standing there, silent, expressionless. "And?" Buffy prodded, goading him now. "What else does a human partner do?"

He was very silent for a long time. At last he said, his voice empty and toneless, "A living human is very warm."

"You're talking about sex."

"Yes." Simple.

"Got one thing to say. Ew." And it _was_ ew. Every time Buffy thought about the scene she'd walked in on between Darla and Riley, she felt a little ill. If she had happened to be so unlucky as to have that image pop into her mind in the middle of having one of the countless other men she'd screwed since coming back to life, her sex drive had morphed into nausea, and the night had ended in vomiting as opposed to orgasm.

And yet, now, the memory seemed blurred somehow, and the feelings of sickness were dulled. What did make her feel ill was the fact that she was sure it was Angel making her feel this way. Just being around him did a bunch of things to her body she wasn't even sure could happen to someone as used as she was. Maybe, in the end, a vampire was all she was fit for. Her mouth a flat line, she began slamming her things back into her purse.

"But sometimes it is reciprocal," Angel volunteered suddenly. His voice surged in the darkness, as he stood up. With alarm, she realized that he was coming closer. "Blood-letting can be very—"

"Don't you dare say orgasmic," she snapped, turning around swiftly.

He stopped, his face blank of all expression. "I was going to say arousing, but okay."

Buffy knew that better than anyone. She'd seen Riley's face.

Angel was standing so close. He could reach out and touch her, but he radiated no heat. His skin would feel strange against hers, cool against her heat, his hands smooth, skilled, too white in the darkness, his mouth—

Humans and vampires sometimes got together because of the sex, he'd said. A living human is very warm, he had said. Is that what vampires liked?

"You look really pretty," he said finally. His voice was full of longing and vaguely surprised, as if he hadn't seen anything but ugliness in a long, long time.

The word threw her. She'd been going for sexy, not pretty. Pretty was something innocent that had to do with pink bows, frilly socks, and pure girls with bright smiles—nothing to do with Darla sucking off Riley or with this deep, revolting ache tugging at her belly when Buffy looked at Angel. Pretty felt too personal, as if he wasn't seeing her breasts or dress or make-up but her, as if he could see right into her. Buffy felt the blood rush out of her face almost as soon as it rushed up. She was blushing from a compliment, something she hadn't done in forever. And the compliment was from a vampire.

"I need to . . . check my hair before we go," was all she said. She bit her lip and went back to the bathroom, trying to steady her thoughts. She'd found Angel poor and defenseless, unwilling to raise a hand against her. She'd learned several things about him since then, but none of them seemed to indicate that he was at all interested in sucking her blood or making her his toy. In fact, he was only going to play this whole act with her because she'd told him to, never mind that it might've been avoided. Then he'd told her she looked pretty.

Buffy looked at herself in the mirror, suddenly seeing something different than the morbid perversion that had been dancing behind her eyes. She touched the scarf on her throat. It looked cute, all tied up like that. The innocence of the wisp of fabric and the bright color made her look softer somehow, open and more trusting. Angel had tied the scarf. Was thathow he saw her?

She swallowed, patted her hair, and exited the bathroom. She crossed the room and opened the door, not bothering to even look at Angel. "Let's go."

* * *

A/N:SinceA2Zmom is in some way a clone of me I'm having difficulty discerning whether it was she or I who wrote this chapter. But for now I'm going with both and crediting her with the truly brilliant ideas and the funniest lines (because they're hers). Her feet should be kissed, and pronto. And am taking the time to her: thank you thank you thank you.

A/N2: The rating on this might have just moved up to "R" (for imagery). I'm not sure, but I changed it anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

The sidewalk was still packed with people, even at 8:30 at night. A few street vendors were hawking "authentic Swiss" watches, and traffic was just as heavy as during the evening rush.

"I still don't like it," Angel said, looking at the sign across the street. It was five stories high, and read in big letters, "MACY'S World's Largest Store".

"I don't care what you like," Buffy replied, crossing the street with a crowd of twenty others. Having to trust Angel enough to do this with her was annoying in and of itself; she still didn't like having to go outside with him without the manacles—not to mention that his jumpy behavior on the streets made her that much more nervous. But it was necessary, obviously, to meet the EEK executive without Angel chained to her, and so she had to forgo the cuffs.

It was also necessary to make him a little more presentable, and that's when the trouble had started. He was instantly an authoritative connoisseur who thought he knew everything there was to know about where to buy clothes. He insisted on Barney's. She suggested JC Penny's. They'd argued. It hadn't been pretty.

She walked down toward the entrance, reminding him of their compromise. "Plus, Macys is the only department store open until ten p.m., and we might just need that kind of time."

"Why did it have to be a department store at all?" he grumbled, following her through the exterior door of the entrance. He looked at the interior revolving door warily, as if it threatened him. Or confused him.

"Because you need lots of different stuff," she answered irritably. She stepped inside the revolving door, Angel slipping in behind her just as she started pushing, making her suddenly catch her breath. Didn't he know it was polite to go one at a time? But of course, he wouldn't be polite. He was a vampire. She could feel him there, behind her; she could feel her hair brushing his chest. Him and all his vampireyness. And hard chestness. And broad shoulders and—and she didn't really have to continue this train of thought.

She pushed hard on the revolving door and half stumbled into the store, turning to snap something at Angel about personal space, thank you very much, and—that was a _nice _purse over there in the counter. It was a little black number with gold trim and two thin straps, and it would totally kick ass with that new dress she had bought a while back. Dawn had said she'd needed to accessorize the outfit. With this purse and—shoes. Ah, shoes. Buffy finally lifted her gaze from the purse and looked around her.

On either side of the wide, chandelier-lit aisle were counters of pocketbooks. One nook was devoted to Ralph Lauren, another to Coach, another to Louis Vuittion and on and on, stretching further than she could see. There was more where this came from. A whole city block of it. There was probably a whole _floor _for shoes.

She couldn't seem to remember there being this much Gucci in Heaven.

A shopper impatiently brushed past her and Buffy suddenly felt cold. "Come on," she said to Angel, scowling. She was never going to get to do anything fun in New York; that was becoming obvious.

She asked for a map at the information desk, looked at it for a moment, then began making her way expertly through the crowded aisles. After the handbags came the jewelry counters, and she suppressed a sigh when she caught a glimpse of a fifty percent off sign. By the time she got to the make-up and perfume counters, she realized she'd lost Angel already.

"What's your deal?" she asked irritably, when he'd finally caught up to her at the Clinique counter. A woman hurried by them and Angel pressed himself up against the counter so her shopping bags wouldn't brush him as she passed. He'd been skittish on the street, overly anxious, looking all around them as if something was going to jump out at them. It had been worse on the subway—the growl had grown to a rumble Buffy had been sure the whole car could hear. Luckily, no one seemed fazed by his animalistic noises or murderous glares. Maybe New Yorkers were used to that kind of thing.

Angel was looking away. "It's crowded," was all he said.

Buffy stared up at him. "Are you hungry?" she asked abruptly.

His eyes snapped to hers. For what seemed like a long time, he said nothing, then, "Yes. And I can hear their heartbeats."

Well, that was gross. She hadn't known vampires could hear heartbeats. Could he distinguish between different beats? Could he hear hers? Was it speeding up? Was it fear, or something—She turned her head to watch the people going by with Angel for a moment. Clueless, happy shoppers, and he was listening to their heartbeats and thinking about eating them. How he could even hear the workings of internal organs—again, gross—above the dull roar of people talking, she could hardly fathom.

Buffy glanced at Angel to point this out and noticed that in the close light of the fluorescent lamps his milky, too-pale skin was looking downright greenish. It dawned on her suddenly that he might be hungry—starving, as she had first suspected—but that he seemed more nauseated by the crowd than attracted to it. She wondered if it was humanly possible (vampirically possible? she mentally corrected) for the undead to toss their cookies, because if looked as if Angel was planning on going that route.

Aside from the obvious facts that vampires drank blood and poofed when you stuck a piece of wood in their hearts, Buffy had never considered vampire physiology. Intellectually, she knew they had vastly superior night vision, hearing and sense of smell, but she'd never thought about what that meant in the real world. The high ceilings and polished marble floors in here must be making the murmur of people moving and talking unbearable for him. Even to her it was harsh and echoey, and she could barely discern the loud thump of a techno beat in the background. And he hadn't even mentioned the smells. The smell of people times hundreds, plus the perfumes and make-up—she looked at him again and jeez, he was in actual pain. A sudden stab of sympathy shot through her and she said softly, "I think it will be quieter in the other part of the store. Let's just hurry."

They quickly made their way to the men's section—though she had to tug on him when they got to the aisle which seemed to be mostly colognes and various grooming products for men. He could be in agony and ready to retch, but apparently it didn't distract him from his grooming fetish.

When they got to the men's section, Angel looked a little better—or at least not green any more. All the clothes deadened the noise here. Unfortunately, here appeared to be tieland. She had never seen so many ties in all of her life, and along the walls were dress shirts to go with them. She surveyed the area, quickly mapping out a plan. "We'll start here, since you need a suit."

"No."

She stopped dead in her tracks. "What?"

"I mean, no suit," he hastily amended. "Leather."

Buffy turned on her heel to face him in the hallway of the store. "Leather?" she repeated, her voice dripping sarcasm. "You think this is a joke? Do I look like your sugar mama? I'm not here to buy—"

"I just meant that's what Angelus would wear. I didn't really . . . do suits. I might now, but that's not the point. I wore only . . ."

"Leather?" Buffy choked. The mental image was physically harming her.

"No—" A salesman pushed by him, and Angel again jumped out of the way, farther than was necessary. "I just . . . A blazer, maybe. Not a business suit."

"Okay. Whatever." Maybe he wasn't being ornery. If a suit really wasn't something he would wear, then he shouldn't be wearing a suit while trying to convince someone who knew him that he was who he is. Or was. The Angel/Angelus thing was confusing. He'd said he might wear a suit _now_. Did he mean now that he had a chip? Did it make him more conservative? Darla hadn't seemed keen on giving up leather just because she'd had a chip.

Buffy sighed and took out her store directory again. This whole shopping expedition was wearing her out and they still hadn't bought anything. She wouldn't have thought it possible for her to want to leave a clothing store, but she was getting there.

Lower level—men's seasonal clothing, men's . . . Huh. Underwear, she translated, and then remembered Angel wasn't wearing any. She should take him to the "men's furnishings" section just to teach him a lesson. But he wouldn't be trying things on there, she realized, and she really wanted to see him in— . . . First floor, she read on. First floor and a half . . .

"Come on," she said, turning them toward the elevator. "Third floor." She pressed the button.

The doors opened and they were immediately surrounded by a sea of shoes. Dress shoes, casual shoes, work boots, ankle boots, black shoes, brown shoes, tan shoes, funky colored shoes. They weren't even female shoes, and it was still happy-land. Buffy glanced over at Angel and his eyes appeared glazed. Even during those few, ill-fated trips to the mall back in high school, Xander had never looked so clueless. He'd merely looked . . . annoyed. And Xander's mother dressed him in those stripy sweaters.

This was not a case of the Y-shaped anti-shopping chromosome. Angel was not disgusted; he just seriously didn't know what he was doing. What had happened to the consumer aficionado? If she had to venture a guess, she would say that he had shopped some time in his life time, but never in a place like this. Perhaps that explained his aversion to Macy's.

She should have known that shopping would be a bit of a shock to him. She'd found him on the street, looking as if he hadn't a place to call home or a cent to his name in years. It was unfair of her, she supposed, to expect him to take it all in right away. Macy's might be a simple, straight-forward place, but she was used to it, used to living like a human being in the human world. Maybe a two hundred and some vampire would feel a little out of the loop. Maybe she ought to cut him a little slack, see things from his point of view. They were working together, for the time being, and . . . .

And she was being stupid again. He was a vampire; she shouldn't care about his feelings or what kind of experiences he had behind him. She felt like she was sixteen again, wanting to give everyone a chance . . . And something in her loved that he could make her feel so young and untarnished.

"Sit," she commanded, pointing to a chair. She almost felt guilty, he looked so completely out of his element. She quickly buttonholed a salesman who seemed like he might be willing to go the extra mile. "He needs black dress shoes." She stood on tiptoes and whispered, conspiratorially, into the salesman's ear, "he's very nervous about shopping. He's from a very small town. Very, very small." She turned to Angel and gave him a wide, cheery smile. He was scowling. "The nice salesmen is going to help you find shoes. I'll be right back." She sounded as if she was speaking to a two year old instead of a two hundred year old, but Buffy hoped that it would help Angel behave.

Suits, pants and jackets were along the left side of the store, again arranged in small boutiques. Boss, Calvin Klein, Joseph Abud, Michael Korrs. Luckily, she had shopped for Riley on several occasions, so she had a starting point regarding size. The first few pair of slacks she looked at gave her an acute case of sticker shock, and she wondered why she hadn't insisted on JC Penny's. She decided to stick to the sales racks at that point and found a few likely candidates. She was especially fond of a charcoal gray in a lightweight wool and was lucky enough to find it in a range of sizes.

Hurrying back to the shoe department, she found Angel sitting, clutching a box to his chest. "You found a pair that fit? Good. While I pay for them, you go try on these pants," she said, shoving a mound of clothes in his face. He stood up, reminding her of Forrest Gump minus the chocolate fixation.

Sighing, she walked him over to the dressing rooms. "Here you go. Try on the pants until you find a pair that fits you that you like." She quickly walked back to the shoe department and paid for the shoes. Shirt next. She passed by a rack of brightly colored Hawaiian prints and snorted. She imagined she'd give Angel a heart attack if she suggested one of those.

Feeling someone come up behind her, Buffy sighed and said, "I thought I told you to—"

"May I help you?" the salesman said at the same time.

"Oh. Oops. I thought you were someone else," Buffy apologized.

The salesman, a neatly groomed young black man, flashed a giga-watt smile. "You thought I was tall, dark, and wearing the worst boots I ever saw, didn't you," he teased.

"Well . . ." Buffy trailed off, smiling a little. It was, after all, a pretty good description of Angel. She'd seen the salesman over by the dressing rooms, arranging the hangers.

The salesman, whose name pin said "Jake," glanced at the dress shirts, then back at Buffy. "Got something you might be interested in," he said, and gestured for Buffy to follow. He rounded the corner, rifled for a moment, checked a size, and drew out a silky shirt with a smart, sharp collar and concealed buttons. It was blood red.

"It's good," Buffy said, nodding. She tilted her head suspiciously. "How did you know it would be his thing?"

Jake shrugged fluidly. "I have an intuition about these things. Your . . . ah . . . boyfriend?"

"Cousin," Buffy supplied quickly.

"I see," Jake said, flashing another smile. "Your cousin has a very nice build."

"I'll say," Buffy replied, and took the folded shirt from the salesman. The fabric was soft, rich. Angel would be tickled. She checked the price. It wasn't too bad, considering the silk. Most guys probably wouldn't be able to pull off a shirt like that without looking at least a little . . . effeminate, but somehow she doubted anything would look very effeminate on Angel. She nodded and turned away from the salesman.

"Your cousin," Jake said hastily from behind her, taking a few long strides to catch up with her. "He doesn't get out much, does he? I could tell. He didn't want to tell me how many items."

Buffy kept walking, annoyed. Was this a come on? Just because she and Angel were . . . cousins didn't mean she wanted to pick up the clerk at the local Macys. Not tonight, anyway, she thought, giving Jake a sneaking glance. He was rather cute, in a lean, cultured kind of way. "No," Buffy said, not thinking much about it. "I guess not."

Jake nodded. "Now is a good time to practice."

Buffy stopped. "Huh?"

"It's late," Jake explained. "A good time to acclimate himself to public places." At her look of confusion, he said, "My brother had it."

His brother was a vampire? A tremor of warning pulsed through her, invisible, but there. She was the Slayer, and nothing was ever as it seemed. She'd been foolish and not a little full of herself to think that this cute salesman with his gorgeous smile was interested in her, only her, for herself, and not in something deeper, darker—more demonic. For all she knew, he could be one of the Immortal's spies. Casually, Buffy continued walking down the aisle, running her hand along a shelf. "What are you talking about?" she asked nonchalantly. "What did your brother have?"

"You know," Jake said, gesturing. "Fear of being out in public. They call it agoraphobia."

"Oh," Buffy said, suddenly pausing beside a rack of pin-stripe suits. Relief tugged at her, but she remained wary. "No, I don't think he has that."

"Ah," Jake said, laughing a little nervously and clicking his teeth. "He's just shy."

"Yeah. Sure."

Jake was silent for a moment. "Hard to get?"

Buffy looked at Jake, startled, and then saw several things that she had neglected to notice before. He hadn't checked her out, not once; he kept glancing at the dressing rooms with a small ray of hope in his eyes; and he was very, very well dressed. Too well dressed. Buffy couldn't hide her smile. "No," she said. "But I don't think he'd be interested. I'm sorry."

Jake rolled his eyes. "Just my luck. All the good ones are—"

"Taken," Buffy supplied.

"Straight," Jake replied, matching her smile with his. "You're not really his cousin, are you?"

Buffy laughed then, a rippling sound Angel could hear from where he was making his way to her through the racks and shelves. "No, I'm afraid not. How'd you guess?" she teased.

Jake tapped his forehead. "It's that intuition."

"Sure," Buffy said, and giggled again.

Angel had quickened his pace, and had to physically restrain himself from grabbing Buffy. She was still smiling at the handsome sales clerk, and the clerk was smiling back. He was more Buffy's size, his expression and manner more approachable, his smile more accessible. And there she was, in that delectably skimpy dress, showing too much leg and too much bust and too much Buffy—smiling and tossing her shining hair. Angel didn't want to taste the salesman's blood.

He wanted to break his neck.

There was something very satisfying in taking a life that way; accessing the proper arteries took a while and could really draw out a death. Simply snapping the spinal chord was, in fact, his preferred way of murder. The simple crack of the vertebrae had seemed to almost sing to him at one time: "this one was nothing; his life was nothing; his death was barely worth the effort." He had never tired of doing it.

Angel glowered down at Buffy and Jake with a dark expression, but it was as much as disgust for his own almost irresistible impulses as it was jealousy. The fact that the desire to feel bones break beneath his bare hands still coursed through him sickened him. And why? Because Buffy was talking to the salesman? He was probably only helping her; she held a shirt in her hand that looked like the kind he had been asking for. But Angel could not contain his instant hatred of him, or curb the territorial, primal instinct that demanded he drag Buffy away and show her that she was his, only his, completely and emphatically. The need frightened and surprised him and made him glower that much more darkly down at the two of them.

"Do you like your pants, honey?" Buffy asked, and laughed, grinning over at Jake, who, chuckling, put up his hands in surrender. Angel was standing close to Buffy—too close, his stance aggressive—but he did not touch her. She could feel the growl before it started. "Now don't get all growly," she said dismissively, as if she said it every day. "Jake here picked out a shirt for you."

"Jake?" Angel bit out, his eyes never leaving Buffy's.

Buffy opened her mouth with a smile, and then closed it. Angel was acting like a jealous alpha male, something with which she might normally have had a lot of fun. But Angel was a vampire. Even though he couldn't do harm to humans, it probably wasn't a good idea to exacerbate his already edgy behavior. Her expression flattened and she plucked Angel's sleeve. "Let's go," she said. She glanced apologetically at Jake and turned to leave.

After glaring daggers and possibly machetes at Jake, Angel finally turned and followed her. "What was that all about?" he asked tightly, when they were out of Jake's ear shot.

Buffy stopped so abruptly that Angel almost ran into her. "I was talking to the sales clerk," she said, without turning around. "I may be your little toy for Banque EEK tonight, but never, ever think that you have any right to censure who I choose to talk to or what I choose to do with myself." She turned around and crossed her arms. "Do I make myself clear?"

He looked down at her, a hurt in his eyes she couldn't fathom. "Buffy, I . . ."

"Yes?"

"Yes. You're clear," he said softly, and turned away from her.

Buffy's eyes gentled. He had a way of disarming her that made her regret it every time she snapped at him. It was obvious he hadn't meant to go all grr. It had just happened, and he was as surprised by it as she was disturbed. Besides, despite the fact that it sucked, it was kind of nice for a guy to get jealous from time to time. She hadn't been above trying to make guys she liked envious, in the past. She knew it was wrong, but jealousy also meant feelings. And this meant Angel must feel something, right?

She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the insidious question. There was more to it than that. Angel wasn't just jealous; he was on edge. She hadn't known him long, but she had seen enough of him to know that something was eating at him. He'd been even-tempered all day back in her room, except for two notable exceptions—when she'd asked whether he was worthy of Acathla and when EEK told him over the phone that they wanted a personal meeting. The first time, he'd done everything short of chain himself up to hide whatever internal hell he'd been experiencing. The second time, his anger had been exposed—but cool, contained, a weapon, not a liability.

"Can I put it on?" Angel was asking.

Buffy blinked down at the shirt in her hand. He was so broad, it might not even fit. "Okay," she answered, swallowing a sigh. "But be quick about it. You don't need to show me. If it fits, take it back off again and put your old shirt on. And you'll have to take off your pants."

"Uh. What?"

"Don't be so dim. I meant in the dressing room. I have to be able to give everything to the cashier so I can pay."

"Oh." Angel looked down at his slacks. "But I like these."

Buffy liked them too. They were the same gray pants she had picked out earlier. At least he had good taste.

He tried on the shirt (which luckily fit) and put on his old clothes again, and Buffy paid. She had to ask the cashier if he could wear the new clothes out, which gained them both a funny look, but Angel seemed pleased. Buffy kept thinking about what Jake had said.

Agoraphobia. Fear of public places.

She was pretty sure Angel wasn't afraid, but it was obvious that he wasn't used to being in public. Of course, vampires didn't exactly sunbathe in Central Park or take afternoon luncheons al fresco, but most of them did participate quite frequently in living human nightlife. After all, most vampires dined out every night.

But it was obvious Angel hadn't been participating in anything remotely social. He'd been out on the streets, but he wasn't of the streets. He was cut off from the rest of the world, which explained his skittishness, his wariness upon entering the department store, his unreasonable jealousy. When Buffy had seen just how hopeless he was after they entered the store, she almost began to pity him. Something had happened. True, it could just be the chip, but maybe it also had to do with his turning, or maybe why Darla and his little vampire family had dropped him. Something.

He was completely alone in the world, and had no idea what the hell was going on.

* * *

A/N: Everything funny, atmospheric, authentic and accurate is a2zmom's. This woman did **on site** research for me. Twice. And she uh, wrote like half of this. Twice. So, much thanks, &tc.


	11. Chapter 11

For once, she had to sit down and eat out, and for once there wasn't a (Famous/Original) Ray's Pizza in sight. Buffy settled for Broadway Jerusalum II, just a couple blocks up from Macy's, and decided she didn't want pizza anyway. She ordered the falafel sandwich, brought it to the table, and set the shopping bags with Angel's old clothes in them down beside her. Angel sat and watched her eat, and she watched him back out of the corner of her eye.

If she hadn't concluded before that he was uncomfortable with being out in public, this place would have made it obvious. Coming to the restaurant with her might have been weird for a normal vampire, but not nerve-wracking (except for the her-being-a-Slayer part). But the bright lights were driving Angel crazy, and every person that passed by made him stiffen with suspicion. Lucky for him, it was late, and not many people were there to stave off a sudden kosher cravings. She asked him if the Star of David worked as well as a cross for vampire repellent. He frowned at her and didn't answer.

Now was a good time for him to practice, Jake had said.

He wouldn't have any trouble if he weren't so damn jumpy, Buffy thought irritably. He looked like he was straight out of a GQ ad, even if they were last season's trousers and even if she'd gotten the shoes at a discount. The red silk shirt hung off him in all the right ways—Jake had good taste—and the black slacks made him look smart and sophisticated. Not to mention his thighs. She'd never noticed a man's thighs before, but she noticed his. They were good thighs. The only thing was that he was too pale, far, far too pale; the white sheet she'd made him wear last night had looked dingy next to his skin.

Buffy shredded the crust of her bread and munched on it, noting how, despite his intense awareness of his surroundings, his eyes never left her. When she bent down to suck the Coke out of her straw, his head dipped down to follow her eyes. The expression in his own was hungry. Buffy scowled. "Want some?" she asked, misinterpreting his hungry expression.

He eyed the food and shook his head.

"But you miss food, huh?"

He shook his head again. "I can't feel hunger." Not that kind of hunger, anyway. Until now, he hadn't missed eating in the least. Not only was his stomach now a useless cavity, food had a bland taste and brought no satisfaction. The small pleasures of eating the sweet things he'd liked as a human were nothing compared to the absolute, all-consuming bliss of feeling new blood surge into him, warm and rippling through his arteries right down to his capillaries, pulsing and sensitive and engorging every part of him. He got a hard on every time.

But watching Buffy eat was another thing again. The way she closed her eyes when she bit into her sandwich, the way her cheeks caved in when she sucked on her straw—it made him remember that feeding didn't have to be climactic. It could be simple and small, and everyday. For the first time ever, he wanted to eat ice cream, and he wanted to do it with her. He wanted to do it with her beside him, feeding him little bits with her spoon, her tongue—

"Uh, what?" he asked, realizing he had missed what she just said.

"I said, 'but this stuff used to taste good to you.'"

"I wouldn't know. They didn't have . . . that in Galway in the eighteenth century."

"It's falafel," she said. "It's yummy." She picked at the crust and stared with a wrinkled lip at her food. "You sure you don't want any?" she said, plaintively. "You're watching me like a hawk."

He was silent for a moment. "You should eat more."

"What?" she asked, startled, dropping the shredded piece of bun.

"You're too skinny," he admonished, looking her over. "Eat more."

There was a long silence in which she just stared at him. At last, she said, her voice cool, "A bit of advice, Angel. Two, actually. First, people don't tell me what to do. I know you didn't mean it that way, but don't do it. Second—" here she paused, looking down and shredding up her bread some more—"it's not very nice to tell a girl she's too skinny. Not as bad as too fat, usually, but skinny's not nice either."

Angel opened his mouth. Then he closed it. Then he opened it again. He wondered what she could mean. Did she seriously think he was insulting her appearance? She looked incredible—hot, sexy, edible, fuckable—clean, warm, good, lovable. She didn't know what she did to him.

She didn't know either the softness he saw beneath the sharp, brittle lines her thinness produced, the frailty that made him want to protect her. Her thinness didn't make her look any less alluring, but it made him worry, made him think maybe she was working too hard, giving herself over to the death in the life of a Slayer a little too easily. It made her look like she didn't enjoy enough moments like this, taking the time to close her eyes when she ate or slurped from her straw, smacking her lips and licking her fingers.

He didn't know how to say all that, didn't know how she would take it, either. He wanted to reach across the table to take her hand, but that two feet seemed so many miles away. He settled for saying her name. "Buffy, I . . . I just want you to be healthy."

"I can take care of myself," she said irritably, picking up her tray and standing up. Then, so quietly he wasn't sure she said it, he thought he hear her say, "But thanks."

* * *

"What are we here for, again?" Angel asked a while later, as they made their way through the hall of an SRO over on 43rd and 8th.

"Keeping a promise," Buffy said shortly, for the third time. At last, she located 4C. She'd staked a vamp here three days ago—the one who had told her that Angelus had been dust for the better part of the twentieth century. She jiggled the knob on the door.

"But our meeting with EEK—"

"Isn't for a while yet." She pushed the door open and stepped inside, flicking on the light as she did so. The fluorescent bulb shuddered, buzzed, and came to life. "Come on in."

Angel walked in with his brow furrowed. "You don't have to invite me. This is a vampire's place. I can smell him."

"Her," Buffy corrected. "And was. See? Angela's ashes." She pointed to a mess of dust beside a broken table in the kitchenette area. One of the many nice things about vampires turning into dust was that no one smelled a corpse, which meant, if fate allowed, that the absence of a vampires who rented apartments could remain unnoticed until rent day, especially if the place was seedy enough. It was a little something Buffy had learned over years of slaying.

She put the shopping bags on the floor—they could pick up the clothes after the meeting—and then went over to the refrigerator. Few vampires kept stocks of blood, preferring the fresh kill. But then again, few vampires bothered to live in apartments, preferring the underground or large spaces they could share with their own kind. The vampire she had staked here had been ill and slightly wack, which explained a lot of things—not the least of which was the bags hanging in the fridge. She grabbed one and threw it at Angel.

Wonderingly, he caught it. And looked at it dumbly. "What . . . ?" he managed, at last.

"I promised, didn't I?" Buffy said.

"But this is . . ."

"Human. It does a body good. Drink up."

He looked like he was about ready to jump out of his skin and dive into the bag in his hands, but instead he glanced from her to the bag, and back again. "Look," Buffy told him, putting her hands on her hips. "This is a one time deal. This is the only stash I know about and I'm not about to rob a hospital for you, but I don't want the bank guy to think you're on a hunger strike, because only guys from the IRA and Gandhi do that. You know, martyr types. Well, and people on T.V. Like Callista Flockhart and Lara Flynn Boyle. Except I don't think anorexia really counts, do you?" He looked at her blankly and she rolled her eyes. "Just drink it."

He remained standing there, staring, for several seconds longer. Then he turned around, facing the dark corner of the pantry. Buffy's lip wrinkled at the sudden lapping and sucking sounds, and she had to repress the urge to vomit. She'd thought it was a stroke of genius, recalling that the vamp in 4C might've had a stock pile. She'd told Angel from the beginning she'd get him blood and more importantly, she wanted his color to be healthier for the meeting.

Now, she wasn't so sure. If she herself was green around the edges, EEK might have a hard time swallowing the idea that she could stomach being a vampire's lover. Buffy had seen Darla feed from a bag plenty of times. It had been gross, but Darla hadn't been a noisy eater. At least, Buffy supposed, Angel had the manners to realize how disgusting the suck-sounds he was making must look, and had turned around.

In a matter of moments, she saw his hand come down, the bag empty at his side. If anything, Buffy's disgust increased. He'd downed it quickly, ferociously, faster than any being, human or demon, should have. Her eyes flicked to his head, expecting him to face her, but he remained turned away. It was only when her eyes moved down to his silk-clad shoulders that she saw that he was trembling.

Eyes widening slightly, she reached for another bag from the fridge. Carefully, but making plenty of noise so he could sense her approach from behind, she moved closer to him, expecting that any moment he would turn around, yellow eyes blazing at her. But he didn't turn. His body stilled in the wake of its tremors as she reached for the empty bag in his hands. Slowly, not touching him, his back still to her, she took it from him and replaced it with a full one.

She stepped back, and the second bag was gone almost as swiftly as the first. She gave him three more bags that way. He never turned to face her, and her eyes widened each time. He was not slowing down, though the slurping and sucking sounds were diminishing. He no longer trembled, either, but he placed his other hand on the frame of the pantry door, as if he needed to brace himself.

Buffy didn't know how it happened. One minute she was thoroughly disgusted and feeling rather nauseous, and the next, she felt nothing of the kind.

Vampires were social creatures. They liked power games and took what they wanted. But not Angel. Whether the chip had reduced him to this, or whether it was something else, he really, truly had forgotten how his species survived. She looked at him, obscured mostly by shadow, his shoulder jutting where his arm reached out. The lines of him were taut, as if trying to contain himself—or trying to block her out. He had forgotten the taste of human blood, but he remembered so many human ways—little things, like the way he had turned his back to her in order to feed. Her heart surged with a sudden overflow of warmth and sympathy.

He was trying to be a man. She didn't know why, but he was trying.

He wasn't very good at it. He seemed to be worried about all the wrong things: designer clothes, hair gel, non-smelly shampoo. Trying on clothes. Eat more, because she was too skinny. But these things, she realized, were all he had, all he knew in his repertoire of being human. He liked silk. Check. Exchange of goods required money. Check. A girl should finish her pizza. Check. That sort of thing. And through it all, in some twisted way, there was the possibility that he really, truly wanted to help her.

He'd obeyed her orders from the beginning. He had protested her plan to meet with EEK not because he was unwilling to help her but because he was trying to protect her. He seemed willing to keep up his part in this charade, and strangely, she trusted him.

Common sense and everything she knew screamed "no." Vampires were demons. They didn't want to help anybody. And yet, in Buffy's soul at that moment, there was a little war waging between common sense and faith, reality and compassion, and somehow, faith and compassion were winning. She shouldn't let them, but they were. That was the person Buffy still was, despite the fact that the Slayer had claimed so much of her life.

It was a little victory that didn't manifest itself in a grandiose way. "Uh," she said, uncertainly. "That's all there was. It's gone."

Angel's hand convulsed around the empty blood bag, but still he said nothing, and did not turn.

"Angel?" she asked, the word breathy and high. When he did not answer, she at last gave into the impulse to touch him. Her finger tips brushed the crook of his shoulder. He shuddered away from her, and she took a firmer grip, forcing him to turn toward her.

What she saw only deepened her sympathy. There was pain in his yellow eyes, laced with hatred and loathing. But even she could see that the loathing was not for her. She lifted her hand from his shoulder to touch the ridges of his brow. Angel snarled and jerked away, turning his face from her again. "Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you," Buffy said, but she retreated, putting her hand back on her hip.

"It's not that. I . . ."

"What?"

"You shouldn't have to touch me when I'm like this."

"Oh." _Oh. _He meant with his face all vamped out like that. Her hand dropped down to fidget with her other hand behind her back. _Oh. _She hadn't even noticed. What was wrong with her? How could she be so stupid? He was a _vampire, _and vampires did crazy murder-type stuff with faces like that. They did crazy murder-type stuff when not wearing their true faces, but still. She'd never quite gotten over tensing up, coiled and ready to strike, whenever Darla slipped into her fangs, and she'd been justified. Darla couldn't be trusted.

And Angel couldn't be trusted.

He couldn't be trusted.

He couldn't be trusted.

"Oh," she said again, and went for the door.

* * *

Muchas gracias to A2zmom for research and providing jokes. Oh, and being incredibly awesome.


	12. Chapter 12

Thirty minutes later Buffy and Angel walked slowly up Nassau, four blocks from Wall Street and five minutes from the meeting with EEK. They hadn't spoken a word since Angel had fed, lost in their own thoughts. At last, Angel broke the silence between them. "I'm going to have to, you know," he said.

"What?" Buffy said.

"Touch you. When I'm like that. So it looks real," he added hurriedly. "So we . . . look real."

She looked at him for a moment, then looked blankly at the dark street spreading out in front of her. Discarded newspapers and a floating plastic bag edged the grime between the feet of the buildings and the slick pavement, the sidewalk and the sewer. The streets were silent, and the tall buildings blocked out the moonlight. "So?" she said finally.

"I just . . . wanted to warn you," Angel explained. "You—you told me not to touch you."

Vaguely, she remembered his hand on her hair, her knocking him away, a stake clattering to the floor. It was true; he hadn't tried to do the hair touching thing since then. Buffy stopped walking, turning to him thoughtfully. "You really listen to me, don't you."

He didn't move, but his eyes flicked away from hers, as if seeking an escape. "I want to help you," he said at last.

"Touch me."

His eyes were instantly riveted to her lips, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. "I . . ."

"Do it." His hand lifted, and when she did not shy away, he touched her face with a suppressed sigh. "I'm not stupid, you know," she huffed, expecting his hand to shy away when she spoke. It didn't. His thumb was there, caressing the spot between her lower lip and chin. Her voice was less certain when she went on. "I know vampires don't help people. I know you have your own agenda—but if you get in the way of mine, I'll kick your ass. If you give me up to them, I'll beat my way out, burn them all down, and kick your ass. If I die . . ." She shrugged. "I'll come back to life, find you—and kick your ass."

"I know you're not stupid," he breathed, his thumb brushing over her lip and circling the corner of her mouth. Then his hand rose into her hair, stroking for a moment, then cupping the back of her delicate skull. His other hand rose and lightly brushed her shoulder. "Am I . . . ?" he began. "Is this okay?"

"Yes." She was trying to follow through, to sound harsh and in control, but she wasn't quite managing it. She hadn't been touched like this in a long time—in fact, she wasn't sure she'd ever been touched like this. His hands on her were somehow more intimate than the touch of a friend, but gentler, more exploratory than the desperate hands of any of her lovers.

"Buffy, there's something I need to tell—"

The fingers at her shoulder lightly traced her collar bone. With a little triple patter of her heart, Buffy realized it wasn't going to work after all. "No," she said suddenly, and pulled away.

His hands fell from her immediately, and for the first time, she saw fear in his face. Fear, and a shrill, screaming pain. "We're supposed to be lovers, remember?" Buffy rushed to explain, hating that look in his eyes. "Or play-mates. Whatever," she added hurriedly. "We can't act uncertain."

"Oh," he said, relief washing over his features. "Right." He tentatively reached for her again, and when she did not protest, he pulled her closer, fitting her to him. They began walking down the street again, now with one of his arms around her waist and the other resting possessively just under her scarf and above her cleavage, her body leaning into him a little as their legs moved in tandem.

But for all that it was her idea, he was better at it than she was. She was trying, but her body was stiff against his. She could hold onto him, but she couldn't be comfortable with it. He was, after all, a vampire. The hand at her waist moved soothingly, stroking both her ribs and the inside of her upper arm. "Are you sure you still want to do this?"

"Can't get out of it now, huh?" She gave a nervous laugh. "Did I mention I suck at undercover?"

"You'll do fine."

"Yeah, I just gotta be submissive and obedient," she pointed out sarcastically.

"Yes," he murmured into her hair.

"Basically, your little slave," she pressed.

"Vampires are sick," he agreed.

She moved her head a little, her view of the world confined to the white triangle of skin the collar of his shirt bared to her. "Maybe I should've staked you, after all," she told the triangle unhappily.

He looked down at her, a little smile tugging at the side of his mouth that tugged at her heart as well. "Hey, I'll try to prove you wrong," he said, squeezing her a little.

"Don't have fun doing it," she snapped irritably.

"I can't promise anything." He had stopped smiling, and Buffy couldn't decide whether he was teasing or not. He loosened his arm around her, settling her casually against him so that they merely looked like lovers walking arm in arm.

They stopped and he looked up. "We're here."

Above them loomed an old-fashioned skyscraper with an ornate peak. In front of them were sleek glass doors with the words "The Trump Building" emblazoned in gold on the white bricks above them. Buffy wasn't surprised. Who was more evil than Donald? "Well, it's now or never," she announced. She paused, and looked up at Angel. "What were you going to say? Earlier?"

His mouth tightened as he looked up at the building. Finally he looked down at her, as if memorizing her in case he never saw her again. "Only that if something goes wrong, you shouldn't worry about me."

She frowned, and swallowed down the sudden fear that she wouldn't be able to follow his advice. She felt as though the lines of his back, the image of his shoulders shaking as he drank down human blood—starving, vulnerable—would be imprinted on her forever. She'd known from the moment she met him he was more than he seemed, but she'd foolishly allowed herself to get wrapped up in the thick of it without knowing what she was dealing with. "Of course I'll worry about you if something goes wrong," she replied. "I'll worry long enough to stake you first, ask questions later. And don't think I won't hunt you down."

He kissed her lightly on the brow. "I'd never think any such thing."

"Just so that's clear," she muttered, as he morphed into his true face. "Let's go."

* * *

Most of the first story of the building was a vaulted, open area, so that Angel's new shoes and Buffy's high heels made echoing, clattering sounds against the smooth marble of the floor. It felt strange to be in such a building alone, with only the faint glow of the gibbous moon dusting through the windows between the sides of the heavy colonnades and down to the floor.

But the building was empty at this time of night, and Buffy's heels click-click-clicking over the marble was the only sound. Angel's arm, casually intimate around her waist, was oddly reassuring. It felt strange to have someone beside her to boost her confidence who was not also worrisomely mortal.

They found the elevator, and Angel pressed the button for the thirty-fifth floor. Buffy frowned and allowed herself to feel piqued she hadn't thought to ask Angel more about the setting of this meeting. Then the doors opened, and her frown deepened.

"Angelus." A man, half cast in gray light, strode toward them out of the shadows down the hall.

Angel didn't stop moving forward until the—short—man's nose was inches from his chest. Buffy tried not to be surprised by the aggressive move. Angel was walking differently—standing differently—smiling differently. Had she even seen him smile all the way before? she wondered. She glanced up at the toothy grin, and tried not to shudder. He looked like a demon very aware of his size, who was using it to stare with menacing amusement down at the little man in front of them. "That's me," Angel told the man, voice easy, relaxed, falsely bright. "Are we done yet?"

"Oh, ho," the man tittered. "I don't think so. I'm afraid I'm going to take up some of your time . . . sorry for the inconvenience; it's necessary, you see . . ." The short man chuckled. "But why stand here in the dark? Come, come let's . . ." He led them down the hall to a corner office, and opened the door, holding it for them as they entered. "The chairman's permitted us use of his office," he said, and giggled again.

The office looked very chairman-y to Buffy, complete with comfy-looking leather chairs and a view of the Manhattan skyline. The man they had followed placed a leather satchel on the big, official looking desk and turned on the lamp resting on it. Soft, yellow light illuminated him. He did not stop talking. "My name is Ubel Knopf. It's my pleasure to meet you, my pleasure indeed . . . Do sit . . . ."

Angel was still near the doorway. He rolled his eyes, face humanizing again. "Now I remember why I hate business," he complained. He sounded moody, temperamental, like a teenager—only, like a teenager with a shotgun who was about to kill a lot of people if he didn't get his way. He jerked on Buffy's arm, dragging her toward the chairs in front of the desk, and they seated themselves. He dropped her arm, hand settling territorially on her knee. It was necessary, Buffy told herself. She slouched there, looking at Ubel from underneath hooded lids.

Instead of going around to sit behind the desk as she expected, Ubel Knopf adjusted his pudgy buttocks against the desk so that he half-sat on it, a mere foot from where she and Angel sat. He had a womanly figure, corpulent and soft, his clean-shaven face smooth and undefined. His skin was sallow and vaguely pliant, but his gray eyes were swift and intense. He wasn't at all what Buffy had expected out of what was supposed to be such an evil corporation do-hickey. He looked . . . well, like an accountant.

"Business, yes," Ubel rejoined, cheerfully. His voice was high and slightly accented. "How has it been for you? You have not done _business_ with us in so long . . . . Some of us are wondering where you have been . . . . Not I, of course; I am generally free of all curiosity . . . . Only, where have you been? Please excuse my question. Some of us have been wondering."

"I've been keeping myself occupied," Angel said cockily. The diabolical grin was back, and somehow, it was more frightening on his human face. It was wide and hostile and it didn't seem like Angel, or at least the Angel she had come to know in the past twenty-four hours or so. He looked from Ubel to Buffy, his gaze raking over her in a way that was nothing like the gazes he had given her before. His hand moved a couple inches up from her knee, squeezing her thigh.

Buffy scowled. He certainly was feeling free to take liberties with his role. He had told her he would have to act a little more . . . violent if he was really going to convince the representative that there was nothing wrong with him, but a thread of doubt laced through her. With a slight change in posture, a few simple words, a choice expression or two, he seemed like a whole different person. More . . . vampire-y, somehow. Maybe this what he was really like.

"Of course you've been busy, brother," Ubel breathed. His gaze was glued to the movement of Angel's hand on her thigh, his eyes a little glassy. He licked his lips and went on, as if distracted, "I would expect not a bit less. And busy can fill up a century. Yes indeed, I'm certain of it, and that's what I will tell them."

"Good," Angel said amicably, almost absently. His gaze remained focussed on Buffy's thigh. He squeezed it again, as though testing. Ubel's sharp eyes practically shone, and he shifted on the desk, watching attentively. Then Angel turned back to Ubel and seemed to forget about Buffy completely, though his hand still rested on her—as if on a possession. "Now how much do I have? They wouldn't tell me over the phone."

Ubel blinked rapidly and shifted his attention from Angel's hand to his face, giving a chubby cheeked smile. "They suspect you, eh? A century of being busy . . . . That's a long time. A very long time," he went on. "Suspiciously long, wouldn't you say? I wouldn't, myself. I am, as a rule, never suspicious. Only . . . it's been a suspiciously long time."

Angel offered a fluid shrug. "Had places to go." He looked at Buffy slyly. "People to drink."

"Of course you did," Ubel said warmly, his voice seeming to sweat with understanding. His eyes roamed admiringly over Angel's body. "And look at what you've done with your hair," Ubel added, suddenly. If Angel was thrown off, he didn't look it—but nor did he respond. "It's different from all of our pictures and smells like . . ." Ubel leaned in. He was now very close to Angel, obviously feeling no fear. He lifted his large, soft nose and gave a delicate little sniff.

And then he abruptly retreated and settled back into his position on the desk. "Well, well," he murmured pleasantly. "You've been busy, haven't you, suspiciously, and why should I question . . . . What does that scent remind me of?" He glanced apologetically at Angel. "You'll excuse me, _leibling_, I'm having a most intriguing memory resurface. Smells can often do that, you see . . . . Oh, yes, I do remember, and my, what serendipity! . . . My recollection relates to you after all . . . ."

Angel, looking vexed, a little bored, said, "What are you talking abou—"

"Gypsies."

* * *

A/N: Much thanks, as always, to a2zmom, my better-than-sliced-bread beta.


	13. Chapter 13

Silence.

"Surely you remember the Romany, brother? That was you, wasn't it? Our records are generally so very . . . accurate."

"What was me?"

Buffy couldn't read anything from the flat tone of his voice, and had to resist the urge to turn and see his face. Of course, she knew there were things, big things, he hadn't told her. She had even known they might get her into trouble. Still, hearing this man reference some mystery that might endanger her for being there, a mystery he might have revealed himself, was not pleasant. Of course, it was very possible that Angel's whole lost, tortured attitude had just been a ploy to draw her into a trap of some kind. Even if he had a chip, his behavior now made a lot more sense than his behavior before this—his gentleness, his uncertainty, his attempts to be more human.

"The favorite daughter of the Kalderash tribe," Ubel was answering, surprised. "Don't you remember, mein liebling? Perhaps it wasn't you. I was so certain . . . . Forgive me. But you don't remember, do you? She wore flowers in her hair . . ."

Stupid Herbal Essence.

Angel visibly relaxed. She couldn't tell whether the action was natural or a studied attempt to remain calm. "Yeah, I remember her. Beautiful. Dumb as a post. Tasted good, though."

Buffy stiffened. He was a vampire. It should come as no surprise—and yet, he had never mentioned feeding off of anyone before now, never even mentioned killing anyone. Vampires usually couldn't wait to brag—especially to a Slayer—about all the people they'd killed. Of course, he probably should mention it now, so that EEK didn't suspect anything about the chip, but hearing about murder from someone firmly in her "can't bite me" column still sent her shivering. And then Angel's hand was on Buffy's neck, idle, sensuous, trailing down over her breasts and gripping one of her thighs again. It was all she could do not to break each of his fingers, and almost as much as she could do not to feel aroused by his touch.

"Oh, yes, tee-hee," Ubel giggled, eyes practically dancing as he watched the languorous movement of Angel's hand. "'Dumb as a post,' yes, that's very funny. How very amusing." He dabbed at his face, as if wiping away tears of laughter, but his eyes seemed impervious to the soft, manic workings of his face. For a split-second, his gaze darted to Buffy. She tried not to gulp, or do anything, really. And then, so quickly she must have dreamed it, she thought she saw him . . . wink.

Just as quickly, the gaze sidled away. Buffy swallowed hard, doing everything she could to pretend it hadn't happened.

"Naturally she was tasty," Ubel was rambling on, "considering how well-loved she was, well-loved enough to . . . cause resentment. But you wouldn't . . . . Pardon me, but would you know anything about that? I was under the impression . . . I could be mistaken, of course . . . . But I heard that the gypsies took revenge on the vampire who killed that daughter. Oh! Forgive my prying question—I really hate to be bothering you this way; I am sure you know nothing about it!—but . . . What do you know about it?"

Angel rolled his eyes, acting as though he was more interested in his fingers tracing little circles on Buffy's thigh. She realized that she should probably be reacting, acting pleased, touching him in return, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Not when she was thinking about Angel drinking the blood of a gypsy girl who had worn flowers in her hair. Not under these circumstances and not under that man's eyes. He was still riveted by Angel touching her; a faint blush had risen in his flabby cheeks, and he was practically panting. How far should she let this go before she decided to stop trusting Angel? Had Ubel really winked at her?

"I had a fang-ache a couple weeks ago," Angel said lazily. "Think that was their revenge?"

"Oh-ho-ho," Ubel chuckled breathlessly, face growing redder still. "Splendid. A tooth-ache, you say? How intriguing. So much for the legendary power of the Romany. A splendid answer to my question. Excuse me. Everything appears to be in perfect order. Yes, perfect. Are you perfectly sure there wasn't . . . ?"

"There wasn't anything left of the Lovari clan by the time we were through with them. Now are we going to do business or am I going to do dinner?"

"Dinner! Oh, now leibling . . . Let's not get feisty. I'm more of a dessert, really . . . quite sweet, you know, so very . . ." He trailed off, eyes drifting toward Buffy, and whispered in a wet voice, "Sweet."

There. He definitely did it that time. He winked.

Buffy had to repress the urge to vomit.

Then suddenly his attention snapped back to Angel and his voice was firm and business-like. "Now, Angelus, there are only these few forms to fill out, just a few; let me find them . . . ."

Ubel opened the satchel on the desk and withdrew a sheath of papers, a plastic triangle on the left-hand corners holding them together. Angel reached out for them, and Ubel, smiling, held them away. "We simply need your signature, and this information, of course, and then we can reopen your account . . . and transfer the money, of course . . . . Oh, I suppose you want these," Ubel said, finally handing the papers to Angel.

Scowling, Angel grabbed them, examining the first page and then rifling through the others. Then he stood and took one of the pens from the stand on the desk, and scribbled something on one of the pages, using the desk to write on. Ubel adjusted the desk lamp, turning the metal shade so that the light shone on the pages. Angel looked at him in annoyance. "Want to get that thing out of my way?" he said.

"What? Oh yes, how silly of me, how terribly silly! I forgot about your vision," Ubel exclaimed, moving the lamp back. He smiled apologetically and turned the shade until the light shone full on Buffy. It cast Ubel in a eerie contrast, his undefined features creating jumpy shadows in his face. As Angel stood over the desk, turning the pages and reading the papers, Ubel's eyes slowly drifted to Buffy, a benign smile on his lips.

He had been smirking at her a long time when he finally said, "I like your scarf." His smile widened.

Buffy's eyes flicked to Angel, who seemed lost in concentration on the papers. His skin was ghostly in the half-light, his eyes too dark to see. She couldn't decide whether it was more creepy to sit there and let Angel touch her—when it wasn't Angel at all, when it was a vampire who drank gypsies and kept secrets from her and was full of toothy grins for charming Ubel here—or whether it was more creepy to have to deal with the EEK representative by herself, one on one, without Angel beside her. Neither option was actually very appealing.

By letting Ubel Knopf see them, and by letting him get away to spread the word among his cronies, she had already done what she'd come for. The Immortal's henchmen would use EEK to find them, and she would find out what was going on with Acathla. At this point, she continued the charade only to keep EEK from suspecting them of foul play, so that they didn't bring an evil bank down on their heads along with all of the Immortal's cronies. The money didn't matter.

She wanted to stand up and tell Ubel Knopf to go to hell. She wanted to get Angel out of there. She wanted him to act the way he had acted before. Then she wanted to go home, take this disgusting dress off, and scrub herself until she forgot she'd ever met him.

But itt was too soon to give up, Buffy told herself, gritting her teeth. She'd come up with this plan, even though it was risky—in fact, she'd done it because it was risky—and now she needed to stick to it as long as she could. She couldn't compromise them both because she had a bad feeling.

Her. She couldn't compromise her. Angel didn't matter. He was a vampire.

"Thanks," was all Buffy said.

Except for the weird winking thing, Buffy hadn't even been sure Ubel noticed her. Now, it seemed, he was all friendly interest. Intense friendly interest. "What's your name?" he asked politely.

"You don't need to—"

"Anne."

"—know," Angel finished, looking swiftly at Buffy and then back down at the papers.

"Oh," Ubel tittered, looking from Angel to Buffy. "Ah. A little confusion there. Didn't know which of you was going to answer, did I? Hee hee . . ." Ubel's eyes settled on Buffy, and he wasn't laughing any more. "What's it like knowing you're going to die soon?" he asked.

Angel didn't turn to look at her, perhaps fearing that their answers would cross again. He remained silent. Buffy's eyes shifted back to Ubel. "Mmf?" she suggested.

"You can't be a donor forever. Soon enough, you're just going to . . . run out." He tittered. "But it's good for now, isn't it? And for him, too. Left-overs every night . . . you're making him lazy." Then once again, Ubel abruptly stopped laughing, and cocked his head. "Aren't you, Annie?"

Normally, Buffy would've spoken. She even had a response lined up. Her tongue was itching to say it; she thought it was a rather good one. All witty and insulting and everything. Instead, she said "um." Um and then: "What?"

Ubel chuckled. "My my . . . . Are you really the reason our dear, darling Angelus is so . . . . sedate these days? You don't look left-over. You're not very pale for a . . ." His hand was coming for her, coming to touch the end of her trailing scarf.

If this man touched her, he was going to die.

"She's tasty, but I wouldn't try her if I were you," Angel suddenly said. He didn't even look up from the papers.

Ubel dropped his hand. "Oh, no," he whispered. His voice was eerily low, and Buffy wondered how she heard it. "I'm not a vampire." Then he began to grin, and this grin was different than his other fleshy smiles. There was something dangerous in this grin—something deadly. His eyes never moved from Buffy's.

"That's everything," Angel said, throwing down the pen. He walked around the desk and put a hand on Buffy's shoulder, propelling her up to standing. He didn't bother looking at her. "I've got to be going. There's this delicious little virgin I've been stalking," he explained to Ubel. "Wouldn't want her to get ripe without me there to pluck her."

"Ah, such a metaphor," Ubel acknowledged, turning to Angel, his tone a little louder. "You really are very witty." He didn't sound amused at all any more. His eyes had narrowed, focused on where Angel's hand still gripped Buffy's shoulder. "And her?" he asked. "What does she do while you . . . stalk?"

"She watches," Angel murmured, looking down at Buffy, his hand beginning to stroke her skin. His eyes were cold, hard, eyes of a creature she didn't know and didn't want to know.

Something was wrong. Something was going terribly wrong and she didn't know what—

"And she likes it?" Ubel asked softly.

"Oh, she likes it," Angel purred. His hand skimmed across her shoulders, and then he added his other hand to her other shoulder. Ubel shifted again where he sat, watching as if impatient. Angel changed his stance a little so that he was standing behind her, movements slow and languid. "She likes it when I take them, when they're still alive . . . When I take them and they're bleeding to death."

In the split instant before she jerked away, Angel was suddenly on her, wrapping himself around her, much more intimately than earlier when he had adjusted himself to their cover story outside. She could feel his knee pressing between her thighs, his hand resting on her breast.

Now that was too far.

And then Buffy felt Angel's hand at the small of her back, and she immediately went limp. The hand by her chest, the hand Ubel could see, was languid, possessive. The other, hidden hand was urgent, petting small, frantic circles against her back—as if soothing a wild animal. Begging her not to react.

She could read his body language as if that body was made for her.

Buffy stiffened—closed her eyes—and gave in. She wasn't sure where it came from, this trust, perhaps from the way his body so easily fit hers, the way she instinctively knew what he wanted. Whatever it was, she trusted him. She knew with sudden certainty that he was not going to hurt her. Desperately, she tried to relax.

"Does she?" Ubel was musing, stroking his lips with a drooping hand. "I wonder." He looked away, as if contemplating something. After several long moments, he asked suddenly, "Did you know there is more than one Vampire Slayer these days?" His eyes fixed on Angel's hands moving over Buffy, his mouth sagging open, his hand dropping down to his thigh. "Maybe you should be careful stalking—and plucking—little ladies on the streets, leibling."

"I don't have to worry about that," Angel said, unconcerned. "There isn't a Slayer in Manhattan. I wouldn't be having so much fun, otherwise. Look at that!" he marveled, turning Buffy's head with a broad palm. "She gets wet when anyone mentions me with little girls." Suddenly, he lipped a kiss on Buffy's neck.

She writhed, pushing him away. Before she was in a position to land a punch, however, she heard Ubel's swift gasp and the patter of his clapping, sweaty hands. "Oh!" Ubel chanted in excitement, heat flaring in his tone and eyes. "But she doesn't like that!"

She paused. In the moment of that pause, Angel pulled her back into his arms, the hand again frantic at the small of her back. "Of course she doesn't like that," Angel growled, male satisfaction evident in his tone, belying everything that that hidden hand was saying. "I like her not to like that." He nipped at the air beside her neck, and whispered, loudly enough for Ubel to hear, "Let's go home, lover."

Ubel's hot eyes were still fixed on Angel's hands on Buffy's body. His breath was coming shortly, and he was flushed again. "Wait just a moment," he said, his voice high and tremulous. He held up a soft paw, inching closer, still staring at Angel's hands.

"No," Buffy told him, and her tone was anything but the meek play thing she knew she looked like. It didn't matter any more whether she trusted Angel. Something about Ubel was wrong, off, and if he so much as said another word, she was going to kick his pudgy ass.

Angel growled a little, near her ear. "Can't you see she's impatient?" he demanded. One of his hands dropped to her leg, dragging upward, pulling her skirt higher.

Ubel watched Angel's hand push Buffy's skirt up her thigh, fascinated. His eyes were shiny, aroused. His hand covered Angel's, and he pulled the vampire's hand up Buffy's leg toward her center. "That's it," he breathed. "A little higher."

It all happened so fast. She would've kicked Ubel where it hurt, had it been her choice. She'd been planning on it, but an older, more experienced vampire could still move faster than her in small bursts—if she wasn't completely focussed. When Buffy heard bones cracking, her first thought was that Angel was killing him—but he couldn't, because of the chip. Right?

When what had happened registered, Angel was standing beside her, Ubel was cradling his broken wrist, and was . . . laughing. Ubel was laughing. "We're so glad you're back, Angelus," he said, stressing the last syllable. Then he turned around and walked away, disappearing into the shadows.

Buffy lunged forward, but he had literally disappeared. He was really gone—completely, confirming her suspicions. Ubel Knopf had not been all human.

* * *

A/N: Much much much thanks to a2zmom.

A/N: Hey! Thank you for reading! I was just wondering about the "reply" feature ff.n just got relatively recently for reviews. When you get a reply, does it tell you it's from thekorapersonality in response to your comment on this story? Because I keep feeling the need to say, "hey, this is tkp from ff.n and you reviewed my fic..." but I'm not sure it's necessary. So. Are you liking the reply feature? Do you like getting replies? How's it working for you? Just curious. I always wished ff.n had a feature like this and now that it has one I'm wondering how it's faring.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

They walked toward the subway station, neither one of them speaking. The streets were eerily silent, even for this time of night, and the shadows seemed uneven, wavering somehow. EEK was still watching them.

The feeling dissipated once they got on the subway, but Angel still didn't like it. There had been something stronger and darker than Ubel Knopf in that building, and the meeting itself hadn't been about his account or the papers. It had been a test, and Angel wasn't entirely sure he had passed. It should have been simple, really. EEK was a bank a lot of demons used. Transactions were not normally conducted here in Manhattan, it was true, but if a demon had to go through some kind of trial every time he wanted to access his funds, the bank wouldn't have been nearly as successful as it was.

But if Angel had thought carefully about it, he would have realized that if the Immortal really wanted him, a lot of the demon community would be treating him . . . differently. He was wanted, and being watched, even if no one but Buffy had explicitly come to find him yet. He shouldn't have expected that something like this would follow normal procedure. What had kept him steady was they—They: Ubel, EEK, and whatever It was—hadn't known about Buffy. The test had been for him, and him alone. He had only truly begun to be concerned when Ubel's attention turned from him to the Slayer.

Whatever it was that had been in that building with them, it was bigger than both of them. It was something they couldn't defeat—not yet, anyway. He would have done anything to keep her safe, to get her out of there alive.

But if whatever Ubel was, or whatever they were facing, was really that powerful, had he really tricked it? Could anything really justify what he had just done? What kind of man touched her like that, and enjoyed it, not because his hands had squeezed her breast, or brushed her inner thigh, or even because her heart had been pumping like a rabbit under his grasp—but because she was hating it so much? She'd been livid, outraged, and—he'd smelled it—a little bit afraid, and that had turned him on more than touching her had.

And Ubel got off on it, too. Even if Angel hadn't been able to see it in the dim light, he could've smelled the man's arousal every time he'd touched Buffy. The man delighted in voyeurism, and Angel had tried to use that fact to distract him, to throw him off. The result hadn't exactly been helpful. There was no way he was going to take it so far as to let that man participate, but hadn't breaking his wrist made it worse? What was Ubel Knopf playing at? Did EEK already know he had a soul; were they just jerking his chain?

If so, they could consider it jerked. When his hand had begun to travel up her skirt and Ubel had been watching, panting, that had turned Angel on, too, not because he got off on voyeurism, but because she didn't, because it sickened and ashamed her and made her furious with impotent rage. Few ideas could have been more revolting to him than taking her right there with Ubel was watching them, and yet part of him had wanted to do it, just to debase her. What had made the idea particularly charming was that she trusted him. He didn't know why, but she did; he could feel it in her body. He could have used that trust against her, and the idea had been so pleasant.

They got off at Bleecker Street and crossed the street to walk the rest of the way to the hostel. Buffy tripped a little on her high heels beside him. It was difficult not to reach out to steady her; the instinct was very nearly a reflex. But he did not want to touch her, now. Or he did want to touch her, too much. He wanted to touch her and show her that his hands could be tender, his arms could be safe, his words could be so gentle. They could be; he knew they could—his hands, his arms, his mouth had never had the chances to touch that way or say those things, but he could do it. He could be so good for her. He could—try.

And he would fail. He would only end up hurting her.

She had straightened and was walking on, and he had to take longer strides to follow. The hostel was only half a block away, now, and—

Someone was following them.

It was a different feeling than what he had felt when they had stepped out of the Trump building. His sense of unease then had derived from something in the air, something all around them that he could feel but not see. This, now, was something more—tangible. He stopped, listening for the footsteps he knew he would hear if he only focussed his senses.

Instead, he heard screaming.

"Buffy," he began.

"I know; I hear it, too," Buffy said, whipping around. For a single moment, she merely stared up at him. Her face, her expression, her stance—they were all hard, unforgiving. Looking at her was like looking down the barrel of a gun. "Don't move," she said. "A muscle—out of place—and you will be gone."

Buffy spun on her heel and jogged down in the opposite direction they had come, removing her stake from where it was concealed on her inner thigh as she ran—a trick she had learned through years of walloping up on vampires while in mini-skirts. The scream—a woman's—had come from several blocks down, but as she got closer, she heard nothing more. Another block, and then there was an intersection, and Buffy stop short of on the corner to assess the situation.

On the street branching right, framed by a line of Chinese poultry shops with dead ducks hanging in the windows, were four men and a woman. One of the men was quite close to Buffy, obviously meant as a look out, but just as obviously not very concerned anyone would interrupt what was going on, because his back was turned to her. Farther down the street, two men stood on either side of the woman, pinning her to the wall. The last man—looked to be the leader—stood in front of her, leaning in, taunting.

"What do we have here?" the leader sneered.

The woman was medium height, slender, with dark, almost black hair, and wearing a long, flowing skirt. At first, she didn't answer. Instead, she spat.

The men on either side of her jerked her body so that her head thunked against the brick wall. "Good," the leader said. "I like it when they don't behave."

Buffy walked around the corner, stepping into the middle of the street. "Really? Sounds like we're going to get along _real _well."

The man closest to her, the one supposed to be on watch, lunged at her. Buffy grabbed his arm and twisted. She heard a snap, then a pop—waited for the crackle—then heard a sick _thwap _as the guy crumpled to the ground, clutching his arm and screaming. "Oops," she muttered. She hadn't expected that particular maneuver to carry that much momentum, which meant only one thing. "You've got to be kidding," she said.

These weren't vampires, just thugs. Somehow, after all she'd been through in the last twenty-four hours, that fact sickened her that much more. At least vampires kind of had an excuse to be sick and evil.

Pissed off, but mostly annoyed, and a little cocky, Buffy lost the stake and surged down the alley past the two guys who had broken off to come at her. She blocked the leader's fist with a forearm and the other's kick with a leg, and with her other arm hauled the last one off the woman, knocking him out with another kick. The woman tumbled free, landing on the pavement.

With the four guys down, Buffy moved to help her up. "Hey, you okay?" The woman shook her head. "It's gonna be alright. What's your name?"

She blinked. "Jenny."

"Well, Jenny, you shouldn't be out by yourself at this time of—mmph," Buffy finished off, startled. One of the guys had come up behind her, grabbing her scarf, pulling, hard, choking her—no, it was two of the guys, three, jumping her from behind.

No big. They were just humans—except the woman called Jenny was standing there looking as if she was about ready to do something stupid, like try to help. She really wasn't too bright, considering that she'd been strolling around Manhattan alone at this time of night. The fourth guy, whose arm Buffy had broken, was coming up behind her, ready to jump her. "Run!" Buffy told her, for a split-second distracted from breaking away from the men on her due to her concern for the woman.

Then Angel was there, looking at the woman, lunging past her and throwing down the guy who had been about to attack her. Jenny looked from Angel to the man on the ground. Angel said something to her. Then, finally, she ran.

Buffy kneed the guy trying to pin her, threw off the man behind her, and delivered a punch to the guy choking her that sent him flying to the opposite side of the street. Short work, really—except that one of the guys, running desperately to get away from her, was passing Angel, and he had a knife. And Angel wasn't paying attention because he was trying to get to her, and even though the vampire had drunk human blood that night he wasn't exactly in tip-top shape. In fact, he was being downright clumsy, his complete attention so focussed on her he didn't even notice the guy with the knife. "Angel!" she yelled.

He looked down, startled, when the knife entered his side above his hip. He frowned, and almost leisurely, grabbed the man's knife arm, turned it back on him, and used the man's own hand and knife to gouge the thug's thigh. Then Angel let go and began walking towards her again. "Are you alright?" he asked, when he got to her. His voice was mild and filled with concern. As if he hadn't even noticed he'd just stabbed someone.

The other men had scattered. The one Angel had wounded was on the ground, howling. Buffy looked at Angel, her expression unfathomable, and then walked over to the guy on the ground.

She knelt beside him, grabbing his good wrist to move his hand away from the injury on his leg. She put her fingers on the gash and pressed down—a lot less gently than perhaps she should have. "It's not deep," she reassured him, taking away her bloody fingers to yank at her scarf. She took it off and wrapped the material around the man's thigh, tying a tight knot. It would soon be completely soaked through, but the pressure should keep the blood from rushing out too fast. Angel had shuffled over to stand by, watching.

"You'll live," Buffy told the wounded man. "Keep pressure on it. Go to a hospital. When they ask you how it happened, tell them how you were attacking a defenseless woman in the middle of the night." She paused, looking thoughtful, and reached into his back pocket. She drew out his wallet and flipped to the ID. "Give them the names of all your friends, too, or I'll come and hunt you down—" she frowned, looking down at the ID—"James Leon. Got it?"

The man scrambled up, and then hobbled away. Buffy watched him disappear around the corner before she lunged the two feet it took her to get to Angel, and shoved him against the wall. She braced her forearm against his chest, the other against the bricks beside him. "What are you?" she demanded. "I know you don't have a chip. What are you playing?"

He regarded her passively, almost indifferently. With what seemed like exquisite care, he simply turned his head away.

She pulled her forearm from him and then jerked it back, forcefully, bouncing him against the wall—in much the same way as those ass holes and prodded that woman. She didn't know why the comparison struck her, or why it made her throat suddenly clench up. She felt like crying. Instead she took his chin in a bruising grip and forced him to look at her. "What did the gypsies he was talking about do to you?" she asked. "When you killed their daughter. What did they do?"

Something flickered in his eyes then—something like fire, something like loathing. Then a wall slammed down, and he began to smile, arrogant, sneering. "They conjured a perfect punishment for me, naturally." His tone was one of derision, of amusement. "They restored my soul."

She scowled, letting his chin go. She didn't see anything funny. "What, they were all out of boils and blinding torment?"

"When you become a vampire the demon takes your body, but it doesn't get your soul. No conscience, no remorse . . . . It's an easy way to live." Then his smirk grew wider, and Buffy realized suddenly that the hatred and humor weren't directed at her at all. He was laughing at himself—loathing himself. "You have no idea what it's like to have done the things I've done . . . and to care. I haven't fed on a living human being since that day."

Buffy's other hand dropped from the brick wall and slid down, resting for a moment over his still heart. Then she looked down. "You're bleeding."

Angel looked down, too. "Yes," he agreed, lips still quirking in a twisted smile. The pain in his eyes had nothing to do with the vicious gash above his hip.

She looked back up at him—his face was so close to hers. She took a step back. "Come on," she said, turning away, and both of them left his blood mixing with the would-be rapist's in the street.


	15. Chapter 15

They didn't say anything the rest of the way to the hostel, or while walking up the three flights of stairs. Angel followed her docilely, his hand keeping pressure above his hip, growing paler by increments as they traveled. At last, they were at the door to her room. She jiggled the key in the lock and opened the door, striding through and going straight to the bathroom. "Take off your shirt," she told him, when he had entered the room and shut the door behind him.

Obediently, his hands went to his collar, unfastening the line of buttons down the front. "Why?" he asked, as he pulled his arms out.

Buffy came out of the bathroom, holding her first-aid kit and a glass of water. She put them on the table and pointed to the chair. "Sit," she commanded, and knelt beside him on the floor when he had settled himself on the edge of the chair. "I'm going to bandage that up," she explained, nodding towards the bloody mess on his side. She dipped a washcloth into the water and began to clean the area surrounding the cut.

He looked down at her small, nimble hands working over his skin. Her head was bent over him, a tendril escaping from her hair to brush his thigh. "I don't need bandaging," he said, voice strained. "I heal quickly."

"So do I," Buffy said tersely. "Doesn't mean it won't get infected."

He was silent for a moment, watching her tensely, trying not to let his eyes drift closed under the feel of her touching him. "Vampires don't get infected."

"Actually, Slayers don't either," she replied, setting the wash cloth aside. She took the top of the hydrogen peroxide and poured a liberal amount onto some gauze. "It's just what my mom used to say."

"Your mom?" he repeated, as she dabbed at the open cut with the gauze. She didn't say anything. He watched her for a moment, then: "That stings."

"You'll deal," she said, as if indifferent, but her hands grew yet gentler as she pressed a new piece of gauze over the wound, and her fingers caressed him as she applied the tape. When she was done, she rested her hand on the bandage for a moment. "Okay?"

"Yes," he replied.

His hand covered hers for a brief instant, and then she was jerking away. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, anger and frustration trying to cover how lost her voice sounded. "What do you want?"

He knew what she meant, even though she didn't spell it out, even though he had already answered these questions. He knew she hadn't believed him before when he had said he wanted to help her; he wouldn't have believed him either. "It was true. I want to help you," he said.

"You don't want that. You're a vampire. And I'm a Slayer. Don't you get that? I want to kill you. I was born to; it's in my blood. Killing. It's what I am."

He did get that. He had felt her itching for it with Ubel, and even with those humans in the alley. It had taken more strength for her to pull her punches and tend to the man he'd wounded than it would have taken for her to kill all four of those men. She was the Slayer, and she brought death. Part of her wanted to.

"But it's not all you are," he said quietly.

She turned away from him, and he could read her troubled expression very easily. There was a girl in there who had wanted to be a normal person—as he had at one time. And this—all of this: being Chosen, being damned, being cursed—these were things that had just happened to them. They didn't get to choose. And while a part of her knew she couldn't be a normal girl any more, she was more than this calling, than this death march. There was another part that still believed in love and happiness and the good things in life she fought for and never got to have. And that made him want her all the more.

Because he did want her. He wanted her so much he wasn't sure he'd known before what wanting something really was. He watched, soulless, as the multitudes loved and lost and wanted wanted wanted, and he'd been endlessly amused by the pointlessness of their meager, clueless lives. Even with a soul, he'd watched and wondered, confused by people who thought there might be a point to all this, by people who had goals in life, by people who had hope.

Then she knocked him to the ground in an alley and changed everything. Existence was worthwhile, because of her. He believed the world could be a better place, because of her. He could never atone, but maybe he could help—because of her.

At last, Angel stirred where he sat in his chair. "Knopf said there was more than one Slayer," he said, affecting indifference. "What did he mean?"

She turned back to him, the truth of who and what she was written all over her face. "Just that. There are dozens, now." Then she added dully, "Didn't you know?"

"No." What she had said before, about being the "original" Slayer, began to make sense. He didn't ask how or why there were more now. "You've been doing this for a long time," he said at last. He could tell, even if she hadn't told him. "If there are others now, why are you still doing it?"

"Because I have to." She said it firmly, believing her words, but there was something vulnerable in her expression that made him stand up and take several steps toward her.

"No," he countered, "you don't. Part of the what a Slayer is is being the one, the only. The Chosen." He stopped. "It's not all your responsibility any more."

"It's . . ." She began, and trailed off. "You wouldn't understand."

He took a step closer, and reached for her. "I could try."

Sudden, unexpected tears pricked her eyes. She jerked away from him, muttering, "I need to take a shower." Then she walked into the bathroom, and shut him out.

She stood in front of the sink, her hands on either side of the it, gripping so tightly that her knuckles were white. She didn't know whether she wanted to scream or cry. He was right; he could try to understand. He had a soul. He did understand; he looked right down into her and saw it all, saw everything.

Buffy looked up at herself in the mirror. It was ridiculous to think that just from the way he looked at her he could read her, knew her through and through. And yet, with him, she suddenly remembered a side to herself she'd thought she'd lost, something that had fallen away some time between dreaming of a battle with the First Slayer and taking a nose dive into Glory's portal. Ever since she was Chosen, she'd been at war with herself; there'd been two sides to her, the Slayer and the woman. But in that one defining moment, she'd become one person. And then she'd died. And then she'd been reborn, but that hadn't changed the fact that she'd accepted who she was. She was the Slayer. She'd been born—and reborn—to fight. She would die doing it. Three times. Maybe more.

After the other Slayers had been activated, after the First was defeated, she'd felt so free. She could go anywhere, do anything—but there had been no question that she would do it as a Slayer. "There's a Hellmouth in Cleveland," Giles had said. "We'll have to find the other Slayers," Dawn had said. "We are not the only Chosen any more," Kendra had announced, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "What are we going to do next?" But her question had meant—as it always did, with Kendra—what are we going to go kill next?

And she'd been excited. She'd wanted to find the other Slayers and teach them and not be alone any more. She'd even thought about making a life for herself, about taking some time off because now there were other Slayers to pick up the slack. But she hadn't thought about her old dreams—the one where she was normal and had a normal boyfriend and did normal things. She hadn't needed to, because those dreams had died. She'd accepted who she was and she'd begun to enjoy it. And yet, here with Angel, it felt as though something were missing from her life, something vastly important, as big as the holes that had been there when she'd wanted that normal life so desperately and hadn't been able to live it. He made her think and feel in ways she hadn't for a long time—in ways she didn't want to face.

He had a soul. He was just like Xander, or Willow—except that Willow had a soul and she had killed people, too. She'd gradually been consumed by black magic; it hadn't been all her that wanted to end the world, but she had let the process begin. Angel was different; he hadn't asked for it. He was as innocent as Tara, or Giles, or Anya—except that Anya wasn't innocent either, was she, because she'd killed a whole roomful of boys while barely blinking an eye. How was it that everyone she knew turned evil at some point or other?

She wanted purity. She wanted her mother's arms. She wanted . . . Dawn, to hold her little sister and to cradle her, because they were family and loved each other and would never betray—Except that Dawn had betrayed her too, hadn't she?

"We have to be together on this," she'd said. Then added on, so confidently that Buffy had thought it was a joke, at first: "So you can't be a part of it. . . . I love you . . . But this is my house, too."

Buffy hadn't understood it at the time. She still didn't understand it. Why Xander, who everyone thought saw so much, had seen so little. Why Willow, who'd always been so close to her, had turned away. Why Giles, who'd left to wean her away from him, had said she wasn't good enough to lead them. Why Riley had left because she somehow hadn't fulfilled him, why her father had left her mother, why her mother had died.

Loving people hurt.

Buffy lifted her head to look in the mirror again and hated what she saw. She looked like a lovesick teenager—like a girl mourning her first love. Except she'd never had a first love, had she, because she'd been too much of a freak in high school, because Riley said she'd never loved him, because the guys after that had just been to take away the pain, and the guys after those guys she'd turned down because she'd become so afraid of using them. She looked weak, like someone who pitied herself, like someone who still hated herself even after she'd learned to live again after dying.

There were no tears streaking her face, but her mascara had begun to run. There was blood—not hers—smeared on her shoulder somehow, and the way the black leather dress pushed her breasts up and put them on display made her feel dirty, like a whore. She bent over, jerking at the straps of one her shoe, tearing at it when it didn't come undone, flinging the shoe away when it did. Balancing on one heel, she stumbled, righted herself, then jerked the other one off with a clatter. She stretched behind her to pull down the zipper of the dress, and couldn't reach it. Then her clawing, questing fingers found the little metal tag, yanked, and succeeded in somehow tangling her hair in the zipper—and then she couldn't reach again.

At last, she let a tear drop. She hated this dress; she hated all dresses like this; she hated how Ubel had looked at her; she hated how Angel had touched her and how she had liked it; she hated how hurt she was; how confusing everything was; she hated being alone; she hated—the knocking on the door.

Angel didn't wait for her to answer. The door opened and he came inside. She was standing with her back to him, a hand on her back still reaching for the zipper.

He must have come in because the struggle with the shoes had made a lot of noise. Buffy blinked back her tears without turning to face him. She didn't want him to see. Swallowing heavily, she said steadily, in explanation, "I can't reach." Despite her effort to speak blandly, the words sounded plaintive, even to her ears.

Then his hands were at the zipper on her back, gently tugging the hair that had gotten caught there. She dropped her hands by her sides and docilely bent her head. When he got her hair loose, he gathered the rest of it and gently placed it over her shoulder, so that her back was clear. Then he returned to the zipper and pulled it down—down so slowly—down so that the only sound either of them heard was the teeth separating, opening like a black maw, like rotten lips of skin peeling back to reveal a narrow strip of new, fresh skin, untouched and golden. He pulled the zip all the way down to the very end, the lowest dip of her lower back. Then he let go, and stepped back a little. He hadn't once touched her skin.

She turned her head. Not to look at him, just to feel him there, behind her, through the curtain of her yellow hair. For a moment he remained very still; then he stepped over and pulled the shower curtain almost closed. He turned the dials on the wall so that a hearty spray started inside the shower. Then he leaned over to the sink and grabbed a fresh towel from her stash on the counter. Silently, he handed her the towel.

She took it, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes only made it to his mouth. She turned, and looked at the shower—wondering if, when he did not leave, he thought he was going to help her undress the rest of the way, too. Then she felt his knuckles touch the nape of her neck, and she thought she might let him. Instead, she felt the back of his hand slide down her back, between her shoulder blades, the movement slow, gentle. His touch felt so unexpectedly—good. Not painfully arousing, as she might have supposed, just . . . cool, soothing. His fingers rested for a moment at the dimple just above the cleft of her buttocks, and then his hand was gone. "I'll be just outside the door," he told her softly.

She heard what he said underneath those words, too, without even having to try.

If you need me, I'll be here. Waiting.

Then he left and shut the door behind him.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Buffy had several tourist materials that couldn't exactly be classified as normal traveling gear, one of them a map with each police station carefully marked.

Which was no help at all, since she couldn't read a map to save her life; for some reason Giles had never included cartography in her repetoire of ass-kicking and world saviorism. Most days she steered clear of police—and key maps—as a general practice, but she wanted to make sure the guy whom Angel had stabbed had turned himself and his cronies in, or else she would give them the guy's wallet so the N.Y.P.D. could take care of it.

She hadn't slept well. After showering the night before she had come into the bedroom to find it completely dark. She'd been glad. She hadn't wanted to face Angel after he'd seen her looking broken in the bathroom, after he'd had to help her unzip her dress and help her remember who she was and what she was doing. She'd also been dead tired, so she'd changed into her pajamas, and slipped gratefully into bed. It was only when she was about to drift into deep slumber that she realized Angel wasn't already sleeping on the floor beside her. He'd been sitting in the chair the whole time, the Acathla book in his lap, watching her in the dark. Waiting.

For that and other reasons she hadn't wanted to face him in the morning (more like mid-afternoon), so she'd slipped out after quickly getting ready, leaving Angel to sleep. She'd considered the whole manacles issue, but things were different now, weren't they? People with souls didn't deserve to be chained up. Well, Andrew did sometimes, but Angel was nothing like Andrew. At least, she hoped he wasn't, because that boy seriously peeved her. But did leaving Angel there alone in her hostel mean that she was just going to start trusting him completely, now?

Buffy clipped down the Bowery on the way to the police station, thinking about it, and also hoping she wasn't holding her map upside down. He was a vampire. But he had a soul. Nevermind Andrew, she told herself; what about Warren? A soul didn't equal good and humanity didn't equal decency and a centimeter on her map must not equal three city blocks, or else she'd already gone too far down the Bowery.

She frowned and kept walking. There was that innocent until proven guilty thing. Which as far as some people were concerned meant having to wait around twiddling thumbs until some scum murdered your girlfriend before you flayed said scum alive. There was also that everyone deserved a chance to make a choice thing, but then again there were always monks who made you into some Slayer's little sister without even the courtesy of asking, hello, and then didn't even give you a chance to live your life before a hellgod tried to kill you to open hell.

And it wasn't like Buffy'd gotten to choose either. Life wasn't fair, and she'd accepted that. She had jumped into a portal and died.

She still had a job to do, and she still had to do it no matter who or what Angel was. Plus, they'd already started down this road. Angelus had to make some noise in this town so the Immortal would find him pronto. He was going to help her whether he wanted to or not, and she wasn't going to trust him just because he had a soul, or eyes that made her burn, or a way of digging right into her that made her remember what she used to think love was like.

Buffy quickened her step as she walked along, listening. After two blocks she sighed, and stepped just inside the open awning of a Chinese teahouse. The tiny café was crowded, and it wouldn't seem odd to anyone at first that she was just standing in the open corner, waiting.

Buffy waited for whoever was trailing her in broad daylight to pass by, stop, or follow her. A minute later, with a fluid twist of her body and a powerful thrust of her arms, she had thrown a body against the brick wall just outside the crowded restaurant in a shallow reenactment of the night before—right down to who was up against the wall.

"Jenny?" Buffy asked, so surprised that she let go completely. "That's your name, isn't it?"

For a moment, the dark-haired woman looked terrified, as though she was going to run. No one had noticed Buffy's move; the sidewalks still surged with passersby, and the people inside the restaurant seemed otherwise occupied. But instead of fleeing, Jenny shook her head, as if dazed. "You're strong."

"I work out," Buffy said reflexively.

"I'll say," Jenny replied, rubbing her head. "God, I can't believe I ran into you again. Or . . . you ran into me."

"Sorry. You were following me."

"Well, actually I was going to the police station to report . . ." She looked around the street, as if scoping for dark alleys, took a deep breath, and continued, " . . . what happened last night. Then I caught sight of you and was trying to catch up with you until—well. No hard feelings, of course."

"Though you might have a rather hard-feeling knob on your head, later," Buffy said apologetically.

"Yes, but . . . wow. You don't know how great it is that you're . . . well, you. I thought I'd never see you again."

Buffy actually felt herself blush a little. It seemed so rare that all the people she looked after and saved actually thanked her. And Jenny was so forthright about it, so unafraid of her. It really was bizarre seeing the same stranger two days in a row in a city like New York, but hey, things could go right in her life, couldn't they? She could get a little appreciation from the masses now and then, couldn't she? "There's no need to thank me," Buffy said, smiling a little, "but it's nice that you wanted to. And you're welcome."

"Oh, I didn't want to thank you," Jenny said hastily. At Buffy's ill-concealed surprise, she hesitated. "I wanted to warn you."

Buffy blinked. "What?"

Jenny looked around. "Want to get some bubble tea?" she said suddenly. "Maybe we could sit somewhere . . . in the back."

Buffy wondered whether she should throw her up against the wall again and demand to know what she was going to warn her about. Jenny seemed harmless enough, but then again, Ubel Knopf wouldn't look like much of a threat on a sunny day, either. But Ubel had given her a bad vibe from the beginning, and Jenny . . . just seemed human. A fresh, pretty, easily attacked human.

Still, it was best to be on her guard. The restaurant was open to the street, which left her a number of good outs. It was crowded enough that Buffy doubted Jenny would try anything, but not so very crowded that innocent bystanders would get hurt. Probably. Plus, there were chopsticks on the little wooden tables to make them look pretty. They would break easily, but in case Jenny had vamp back up it was always good to scope for stakes.

Jenny ordered them tapioca drinks, while Buffy waited near the back of the long, narrow café to try to snag them a table.

"Awkward, huh?" Jenny said, after they had finally sat down. "I didn't mean to be. You saved my life." It was a statement of fact, not a thank you. She was subtle about it, but Buffy had had enough desperate demons in her hands, enough scheming villains to see that Jenny was searching, looking for something in her eyes. After a moment, Jenny's eyes dropped from Buffy's steady reciprocation, and she held out her hand. "Jenny Calendar."

"Anne," Buffy said immediately. "Anne Harris." Out of all her friends, Xander seemed to have the most innocuous last name.

"Great to meet you, Anne."

Buffy poked her straw up and down in her cup, trying to look disinterested. "What'd you wanna warn me about?"

"It's about the man. The one who came into the alley and . . . He saved me too, didn't he?"

Buffy tried not to stiffen at her reference to Angel. Instead, she shrugged.

"He was with you," Jenny persisted. "I mean, I heard you call his name."

This was going from bad to worse. If Jenny was one of EEK's spies, the cover they'd so carefully constructed the night before was almost certainly blown. While she'd always known that there was a possibility her plan could bring EEK after her too—Angel had warned her—the power she'd felt in Ubel as he disappeared left her very unexcited by the prospect.

Angel had also warned her that after the meeting she should keep a relatively low profile, not drawing attention to herself as the Slayer, so the Immortal—or EEK, if it came to that—wouldn't expect having to deal with both of them. Buffy hadn't considered reporting the crime last night would stir any waters, as it had nothing to do with demons, but perhaps the idea of doing it had been foolish. Perhaps it had been foolish to save Jenny at all, so close after the meeting with EEK. But if there was something funny about Jenny or the situation—something demonic—Angel would've sensed it with his vamp feelers and told her. Right?

Still, the fact that this woman just happened to see her again after last night and now had something to tell her about Angel was highly suspicious. Buffy decided her best option was to try to play the charade from the night before and just hope it worked.

"Angelus," she mumbled at last.

Jenny looked around the shop quickly, then took a long sip of her tea. "Look," she said finally. "I don't know anything about you and how you . . . your relationship. Or him," she added hurriedly. "But I do know this. Sounds funny—I don't quite know how to explain, but . . . I saw his face change."

Buffy didn't remember Angel going into game face, but she'd been rather distracted at the time. It wasn't so much the three guys holding her down as the woman she'd saved not running for her life, and the vampire she'd commanded not to follow her showing up anyway. And then she'd been even more distracted by that same vampire, who was supposed to have a chip in his head, attacking a human to save Jenny's life. "Yeah," Buffy said noncommittally. "It does that."

Jenny crossed her arms on the table and leaned in, her voice lowering. "You don't understand. It changed. I think there's something . . . wrong with him."

Buffy tried to affect a glazed look in her eyes. Perhaps this wasn't necessary; perhaps Jenny really was trying to protect her from the demon she'd seen and hadn't understood. Then again, maybe not. So, instead of responding as she normally would have, she gave a little fake shiver. "There are plenty of things wrong with Angelus."

Jenny, looking startled, sat back a little and stirred her tea. "You're young yet, Anne," Jenny said finally. "And there are forces in this world that you can't . . . Look, I've done a lot of research on the internet. And I know you can't believe everything you read, but I've seen some of this stuff with my own eyes. I know you think he's just some stray, want to help him out, taken in by a pretty face, but he's dangerous. You should stay away from him."

"Help him?" Buffy scoffed. "He's a vampire."

Jenny almost dropped her cup. "You know?"

"Sure," Buffy said, slurring a little. "Think I'd've taken on all those guys just to get the crap beat out of me? Crap, but we were bored." Buffy winced. That didn't sound right. Did "left-overs"—as Ubel had called them—say the word "crap"? It was such a pain pretending to be dark and scary. Even after coming back to life, she hadn't been dark enough to mess around with a vampire. How was a vamp tramp supposed to act when she didn't have her suck-mate to lean on? Would cussing a lot do it? Maybe she should have said "fuck".

Anyway, this proved one thing. Jenny was no perfect innocent, blind to the world around her. She knew vampires existed and she knew they were dangerous. Which didn't at all prove she was evil or had any sort of connection with EEK, but Buffy wasn't about to drop the act now.

"Bored?" Jenny seemed confused by this.

"And, well, he gets the midnight munchies. Yeah, bored! Remember, vampire? With the grr? He has to get his jollies somewhere."

"Jollies? What're you talking about?"

"I mean, aside from me," Buffy tacked on quickly. "'Cause I provide jollies also. I'm like a jolly vendor. Except, you know, vampire, with the arrgh. Maybe it's more like I provide anti-jollies." Buffy winced. Jolly vendor?

"What're you saying?" Jenny was frowning suspiciously.

Buffy shrugged and tried not to ramble. "Pretty face, you said it yourself. Think about it."

Jenny looked like Buffy'd just told her her boyfriend was a serial killer. Which, actually, she had. "You're lovers?"

From EEK, there should have been a marked lack of surprise. From the innocent Jenny was making herself out to be, there probably should've been revulsion. Jenny just seemed suspicious. "I love," Buffy said, in a bored tone. "He feeds. It's a thing."

"But that's not . . . What's going on here? What're you trying to pull?"

"What, you've never heard of a vamp having a suckbabe?" Buffy grimaced again. Angel should've given her a dark mistress vocab list. Learn these words by Thursday! There could've been a spelling bee, after.

"Why don't you just tell me the truth?" Jenny's eyes were keen.

"What makes you think I'm lying?" Buffy's eyes were officially not meeting Jenny's any more; too much keen could be a bad thing. "Whatever, lady. You know, I saved your life." Buffy rose to stalk off, when Jenny grabbed her wrist. Humbly—and hating it—Buffy sat back down.

"Wait, this is important. You're still in danger. You—whatever you're trying to do, and whatever he's doing—are you making him happy?"

"Happy? Angelus?" Buffy laughed harshly. "You need to find yourself a man, Jen. Are they ever happy?"

"I don't know why you would lie," Jenny said slowly. "I don't know what you think you're doing. Or him."

"What I'm doing is getting back," Buffy said, tugging her wrist from where it was still clutched in Jenny's bony fingers. "He starts snacking if I'm away too long, and I just get so jealous." She stood, purposely wobbling a little. Jenny stood as well, reaching out a reflexive hand to steady her. "Maybe I'll get him a mango thing. He has a sweet fang, and he just loves take out. Speaking of which," Buffy added, leaning against Jenny, "want to come with?"

"It doesn't make sense," Jenny said, extricating herself from Buffy with some degree of disgust. "But whatever you think you're trying to do, whatever he's doing—it's a lie. He—vampires are killers."

"You have no idea," Buffy snapped. "He's waiting." She picked up her purse and resolutely walked out of the café, careful to not look as if she was waiting to see whether Jenny was following her. Buffy hurried back to the hostel, hoping she looked liked she was hurrying home to get sucked on by a monster.


End file.
